SONS  AND 
LOVERS 


D.H.LAWRENCE 


. 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


BT  D.   II.  LAWRENCE 

SONS   AND    LOVERS 
THE   TRESPASSER 
LOVE    POEMS    AND    OTHERS 
THE    WHITE    PEACOCK 
At  all  booksellers 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


BY 

D.  H.  LAWRENCE 


NEW   YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
MCMXIII 


COPYRIGHT,    1913,   BY 
MITCHELL   KENNERLEY 


THE -PLIMPTON -PRESS 
NORWOOD- MASS- U'S-A 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE  MORELS  3 

II    THE  BIRTH  OF  PAUL,  AND  ANOTHER  BATTLE  35 

III  THE  CASTING  OFF  OF  MOREL — THE  TAKING  ON 

OF  WILLIAM  58 

IV  THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  73 
V    PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  105 

VI    DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  142 

VII    LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  177 

VIII    STRIFE  IN  LOVE  223 

IX    DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  266 

X    CLARA  312 

XI    THE  TEST  ON  MIRIAM  343 

XII    PASSION  372 

XIII  BAXTER  DAWES  421 

XIV  THE  RELEASE  467 
XV  DERELICT  504 


SONS  AND   LOVERS 


SONS  AND  LOWERS 

PART  I 

CHAPTER   I 

THE    EARLY    MARRIED    LIFE    OF    THE    MORELS 


Bottoms  "  succeeded  to  "  Hell  Row."  Hell  Row 
was  a  block  of  thatched,  bulging  cottages  that  stood 
by  the  brook-side  on  Greenhill  Lane.  There  lived  the  col- 
liers who  worked  in  the  little  gin-pits  two  fields  away. 
The  brook  ran  under  the  alder-trees,  scarcely  soiled  by 
these  small  mines,  whose  coal  was  drawn  to  the  surface  by 
donkeys  that  plodded  wearily  in  a  circle  round  a  gin. 
And  all  over  the  countryside  were  these  same  pits,  some 
of  which  had  been  worked  in  the  time  of  Charles  II,  the 
few  colliers  and  the  donkeys  burrowing  down  like  ants  into 
the  earth,  making  queer  mounds  and  little  black  places 
among  the  corn-fields  and  the  meadows.  And  the  cottages 
of  these  coalminers,  in  blocks  and  pairs  here  and  there, 
together  with  odd  farms  and  homes  of  the  stockingers, 
straying  over  the  parish,  formed  the  village  of  Bestwood. 

Then,  some  sixty  years  ago,  a  sudden  change  took 
place.  The  gin-pits  were  elbowed  aside  by  the  large  mines 
of  the  financiers.  The  coal  and  iron  field  of  Notting- 
hamshire and  Derbyshire  was  discovered.  Carston,  Waite 
and  Co.  appeared.  Amid  tremendous  excitement,  Lord 
Palmerston  formally  opened  the  company's  first  mine  at 
Spinney  Park,  on  the  edge  of  Sherwood  Forest. 

About  this  time  the  notorious  Hell  Row,  which  through 
growing  old  had  acquired  an  evil  reputation,  was  burned 
down,  and  much  dirt  was  cleansed  away. 


4  Sons  and  Lovers 

Carston,  Waite  and  Co.  found  they  had  struck  on  a 
good  thing,  so,  down  the  valleys  of  the  brooks  from  Selby 
and  Nuttall,  new  mines  were  sunk,  until  soon  there  were 
six  pits  working.  From  Nuttall,  high  up  on  the  sandstone 
among  the  woods,  the  railway  ran,  past  the  ruined  priory 
of  the  Carthusians  and  past  Robin  Hood's  Well,  down  to 
Spinney  Park,  then  on  to  Minton,  a  large  mine  among 
corn-fields;  from  Minton  across  the  farm-lands  of  the 
valleyside  to  Bunker's  Hill,  branching  off  there,  and  run- 
ning north  to  Beggarlee  and  Selby,  that  looks  over  at 
Crich  and  the  hills  of  Derbyshire;  six  mines  like  black 
studs  on  the  countryside,  linked  by  a  loop  of  fine  chain, 
the  railway. 

To  accommodate  the  regiments  of  miners,  Carston, 
Waite  and  Co.  built  the  Squares,  great  quadrangles  of 
dwellings  on  the  hillside  of  Bestwood,  and  then,  in  the 
brook  valley,  on  the  site  of  Hell  Row,  they  erected  the 
Bottoms. 

The  Bottoms  consisted  of  six  blocks  of  miners'  dwell- 
ings, two  rows  of  three,  like  the  dots  on  a  blank-six 
domino,  and  twelve  houses  in  a  block.  This  double  row 
of  dwellings  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  rather  sharp  slope  from 
Bestwood,  and  looked  out,  from  the  attic  windows  at  least, 
on  the  slow  climb  of  the  valley  towards  Selby. 

The  houses  themselves  were  substantial  and  very  decent. 
One  could  walk  all  round,  seeing  little  front  gardens  with 
auriculas  and  saxifrage  in  the  shadow  of  the  bottom  block, 
sweet-williams  and  pinks  in  the  sunny  top  block;  seeing 
neat  front  windows,  little  porches,  little  privet  hedges,  and 
dormer  windows  for  the  attics.  But  that  was  outside ;  that 
was  the  view  on  to  the  uninhabited  parlours  of  all  the 
colliers'  wives.  The  dwelling-room,  the  kitchen,  was  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  facing  inward  between  the  blocks,  look- 
ing at  a  scrubby  back  garden,  and  then  at  the  ash-pits. 
And  between  the  rows,  between  the  long  lines  of  ash-pits, 
went  the  alley,  where  the  children  played  and  the  women 
gossiped  and  the  men  smoked.  So,  the  actual  conditions 
of  living  in  the  Bottoms,  that  was  so  well  built  and  that 


Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels        5 

looked  so  nice,  were  quite  unsavoury  because  people  must 
live  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  kitchens  opened  on  to  that 
nasty  alley  of  ash-pits. 

Mrs.  Morel  was  not  anxious  to  move  into  the  Bottoms, 
which  was  already  twelve  years  old  and  on  the  downward 
path,  when  she  descended  to  it  from  Bestwood.  But  it  was 
the  best  she  could  do.  Moreover,  she  had  an  end  house 
in  one  of  the  top  blocks,  and  thus  had  only  one  neighbour ; 
on  the  other  side  an  extra  strip  of  garden.  And,  having 
an  end  house,  she  enjoyed  a  kind  of  aristocracy  among 
the  other  women  of  the  "  between  "  houses,  because  her 
rent  was  five  shillings  and  sixpence  instead  of  five  shillings 
a  week.  But  this  superiority  in  station  was  not  much  con- 
solation to  Mrs.  Morel. 

She  was  thirty-one  years  old,  and  had  been  married  eight 
years.  A  rather  small  woman,  of  delicate  mould  but  reso- 
lute bearing,  she  shrank  a  little  from  the  first  contact  with 
the  Bottoms  women.  She  came  down  in  the  July,  and  in 
the  September  expected  her  third  baby. 

Her  husband  was  a  miner.  They  had  only  been  in  their 
new  home  three  weeks  when  the  wakes,  or  fair,  began. 
Morel,  she  knew,  was  sure  to  make  a  holiday  of  it.  He 
went  off  early  on  the  Monday  morning,  day  of  the  fair. 
The  two  children  were  highly  excited.  William,  a  boy  of 
seven,  fled  off  immediately  after  breakfast,  to  prowl  round 
the  wakes  ground,  leaving  Annie,  who  was  only  five,  to 
whine  all  morning  to  go  also.  Mrs.  Morel  did  her  work. 
She  scarcely  knew  her  neighbours  yet,  and  knew  no  one 
with  whom  to  trust  the  little  girl.  So  she  promised  to  take 
her  to  the  wakes  after  dinner. 

William  appeared  at  half-past  twelve.  He  was  a  very 
active  lad,  fair-haired,  with  a  touch  of  the  Dane  or  Nor- 
wegian about  him. 

"  Can  I  have  my  dinner,  mother?  "  he  cried,  rushing  in 
with  his  cap  on.  "  'Cause  it  begins  at  half-past  one,  the 
man  says  so." 

"  You  can  have  your  dinner  as  soon  as  it 's  done,"  re- 
plied the  mother. 


6  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Is  n't  it  done?  "  he  cried,  his  blue  eyes  staring  at  her 
in  indignation.  "  Then  I  'm  goin'  be-out  it." 

"  You  '11  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  It  will  be  done  in  five 
minutes.  It  is  only  half-past  twelve." 

"  They  '11  be  beginnin',"  the  boy  half  cried,  half  shouted. 

"  You  won't  die  if  they  do,"  said  the  mother.  "  Be- 
sides, it 's  only  half-past  twelve,  so  you  've  a  full  hour." 

The  lad  began  hastily  to  lay  the  table,  and  directly  the 
three  sat  down.  They  were  eating  batter-pudding  and 
jam,  when  the  boy  jumped  off  his  chair  and  stood  per- 
fectly still.  Some  distance  away  could  be  heard  the  first 
small  braying  of  a  merry-go-round,  and  the  tooting  of  a 
horn.  His  face  quivered  as  he  looked  at  his  mother. 

"  I  told  you !  "  he  said,  running  to  the  dresser  for  his 
cap. 

"  Take  your  pudding  in  your  hand  —  and  it 's  only  five 
past  one,  so  you  were  wrong  —  you  have  n't  got  your 
twopence,"  cried  the  mother  in  a  breath. 

The  boy  came  back,  bitterly  disappointed,  for  his  two- 
pence; then  went  off  without  a  word. 

"  I  want  to  go,  I  want  to  go,"  said  Annie,  beginning  to 
cry. 

"  Well,  and  you  shall  go,  whining,  wizzening  little 
stick !  "  said  the  mother.  And  later  in  the  afternoon  she 
trudged  up  the  hill  under  the  tall  hedge  with  her  child. 
The  hay  was  gathered  from  the  fields,  and  cattle  were 
turned  on  to  the  eddish.  It  was  warm,  peaceful. 

Mrs.  Morel  did  not  like  the  wakes.  There  were  two  sets 
of  horses,  one  going  by  steam,  one  pulled  round  by  a 
pony;  three  organs  were  grinding,  and  there  came  odd 
cracks  of  pistol-shots,  fearful  screeching  of  the  cocoanut 
man's  rattle,  shouts  of  the  Aunt  Sally  man,  screeches  from 
the  peep-show  lady.  The  mother  perceived  her  son  gazing 
enraptured  outside  the  Lion  Wallace  booth,  at  the  pic- 
tures of  this  famous  lion  that  had  killed  a  negro  and 
maimed  for  life  two  white  men.  She  left  him  alone,  and 
went  to  get  Annie  a  spin  of  toffee.  Presently  the  lad 
stood  in  front  of  her,  wildly  excited. 


Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels        7 

"  You  never  said  you  was  coming  —  is  n't  the'  a  lot  of 
things  ?  —  that  lion  's  killed  three  men  —  I  've  spent  my 
tuppence  —  an'  look  here." 

He  pulled  from  his  pocket  two  egg-cups,  with  pink  moss- 
roses  on  them. 

"  I  got  these  from  that  stall  where  y'ave  ter  get  them 
marbles  in  them  holes.  An'  I  got  these  two  in  two  goes 
—  'aepenny  a  go  —  they  've  got  moss-roses  on,  look  here. 
I  wanted  these." 

She  knew  he  wanted  them  for  her. 

"  H'm !  "  she  said,  pleased.    "  They  are  pretty !  " 

"  Shall  you  carry  'em,  'cause  I  'm  frightened  o'  breakin' 
'em?  " 

He  was  tipful  of  excitement  now  she  had  come,  led  her 
about  the  ground,  showed  her  everything.  Then,  at  the 
peep-show,  she  explained  the  pictures,  in  a  sort  of  story, 
to  which  he  listened  as  if  spellbound.  He  would  not  leave 
her.  All  the  time  he  stuck  close  to  her,  bristling  with  a 
small  boy's  pride  of  her.  For  no  other  woman  looked 
such  a  lady  as  she  did,  in  her  little  black  bonnet  and  her 
cloak.  She  smiled  when  she  saw  women  she  knew.  When 
she  was  tired  she  said  to  her  son: 

"  Well,  are  you  coming  now,  or  later  ?  " 

"  Are  you  go  in'  a'ready  ?  "  he  cried,  his  face  full  of 
reproach. 

"  Already?    It  is  past  four,  /  know." 

"What  are  you  goin'  a'ready  for?"  he  lamented. 

"  You  need  n't  come  if  you  don't  want,"  she  said. 

And  she  went  slowly  away  with  her  little  girl,  whilst 
her  son  stood  watching  her,  cut  to  the  heart  to  let  her  go, 
and  yet  unable  to  leave  the  wakes.  As  she  crossed  the  open 
ground  in  front  of  the  Moon  and  Stars  she  heard  men 
shouting,  and  smelled  the  beer,  and  hurried  a  little,  think- 
ing her  husband  was  probably  in  the  bar. 

At  about  half-past  six  her  son  came  home,  tired  now, 
rather  pale,  and  somewhat  wretched.  He  was  miserable, 
though  he  did  not  know  it,  because  he  had  let  her  go 
alone.  Since  she  had  gone,  he  had  not  enjoyed  his  wakes. 


8  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Has  my  dad  been?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  said  the  mother. 

"  He  's  helping  to  wait  at  the  Moon  and  Stars.  I  seed 
him  through  that  black  tin  stuff  wi'  holes  in,  on  the  win- 
dow, wi'  his  sleeves  rolled  up." 

"  Ha !  "  exclaimed  the  mother  shortly.  "  He  's  got  no 
money.  An'  he  '11  be  satisfied  if  he  gets  his  'lowance, 
whether  they  give  him  more  or  not." 

When  the  light  was  fading,  and  Mrs.  Morel  could  see  no 
more  to  sew,  she  rose  and  went  to  the  door.  Everywhere 
was  the  sound  of  excitement,  the  restlessness  of  the  holi- 
day, that  at  last  infected  her.  She  went  out  into  the  side 
garden.  Women  were  coming  home  from  the  wakes,  the 
children  hugging  a  white  lamb  with  green  legs,  or  a  wooden 
horse.  Occasionally  a  man  lurched  past,  almost  as  full 
as  he  could  carry.  Sometimes  a  good  husband  came  along 
with  his  family,  peacefully.  But  usually  the  women  and 
children  were  alone.  The  stay-at-home  mothers  stood  gos- 
siping at  the  corners  of  the  alley,  as  the  twilight  sank, 
folding  their  arms  under  their  white  aprons. 

Mrs.  Morel  was  alone,  but  she  was  used  to  it.  Her 
son  and  her  little  girl  slept  upstairs;  so,  it  seemed,  her 
home  was  there  behind  her,  fixed  and  stable.  But  she  felt 
wretched  with  the  coming  child.  The  world  seemed  a 
dreary  place,  where  nothing  else  would  happen  for  her  — 
at  least  until  William  grew  up.  But  for  herself,  nothing 
but  this  dreary  endurance  —  till  the  children  grew  up. 
And  the  children !  She  could  not  afford  to  have  this  third. 
She  did  not  want  it.  The  father  was  serving  beer  in  a 
public-house,  swilling  himself  drunk.  She  despised  him, 
and  was  tied  to  him.  This  coming  child  was  too  much 
for  her.  If  it  were  not  for  William  and  Annie,  she  was 
sick  of  it,  the  struggle  with  poverty  and  ugliness  and 
meanness. 

She  went  into  the  front  garden,  feeling  too  heavy  to 
take  herself  out,  yet  unable  to  stay  indoors.  The  heat 
suffocated  her.  And  looking  ahead,  the  prospect  of  her 
life  made  her  feel  as  if  she  were  buried  alive. 


Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels        9 

The  front  garden  was  a  small  square  with  a  privet 
hedge.  There  she  stood,  trying  to  soothe  herself  with 
the  scent  of  flowers  and  the  fading,  beautiful  evening. 
Opposite  her  small  gate  was  the  stile  that  led  uphill,  under 
the  tall  hedge,  between  the  burning  glow  of  the  cut  pas- 
tures. The  sky  overhead  throbbed  and  pulsed  with  light. 
The  glow  sank  quickly  off  the  field;  the  earth  and  the 
hedges  smoked  dusk.  As  it  grew  dark,  a  ruddy  glare  came 
out  on  the  hilltop,  and  out  of  the  glare  the  diminished  com- 
motion of  the  fair. 

Sometimes,  down  the  trough  of  darkness  formed  by  the 
path  under  the  hedges,  men  came  lurching  home.  One 
young  man  lapsed  into  a  run  down  the  steep  bit  that 
ended  the  hill,  and  went  with  a  crash  into  the  stile. 
Mrs.  Morel  shuddered.  He  picked  himself  up,  swearing 
viciously,  rather  pathetically,  as  if  he  thought  the  stile 
had  wanted  to  hurt  him. 

She  went  indoors,  wondering  if  things  were  never  going 
to  alter.  She  was  beginning  by  now  to  realize  that  they 
would  not.  She  seemed  so  far  away  from  her  girlhood, 
she  wondered  if  it  were  the  same  person  walking  heavily 
up  the  back  garden  at  the  Bottoms  as  had  run  so  lightly 
on  the  breakwater  at  Sheerness  ten  years  before. 

"  What  have  I  to  do  with  it  ?  "  she  said  to  herself. 
"  What  have  I  to  do  with  all  this  ?  Even  the  child  I  am 
going  to  have !  It  does  n't  seem  as  if  /  were  taken  into 
account." 

Sometimes  life  takes  hold  of  one,  carries  the  body  along, 
accomplishes  one's  history,  and  yet  is  not  real,  but  leaves 
oneself  as  it  were  slurred  over. 

"  I  wait,"  Mrs.  Morel  said  to  herself  —  "I  wait,  and 
what  I  wait  for  can  never  come." 

Then  she  straightened  the  kitchen,  lit  the  lamp,  mended 
the  fire,  looked  out  the  washing  for  the  next  day,  and 
put  it  to  soak.  After  which  she  sat  down  to  her  sewing. 
Through  the  long  hours  her  needle  flashed  regularly 
through  the  stuff.  Occasionally  she  sighed,  moving  to 
relieve  herself.  And  all  the  time  she  was  thinking  how 


10  Sons  and  Lovers 

to  make  the  most  of  what  she  had,  for  the  children's 
sakes. 

At  half-past  eleven  her  husband  came.  His  cheeks  were 
very  red  and  very  shiny  above  his  black  moustache.  His 
head  nodded  slightly.  He  was  pleased  with  himself. 

"Oh!  Oh!  waitin'  for  me,  lass?  I've  bin  'elpin'  An- 
thony, an'  what 's  think  he  's  gen  me?  Nowt  b'r  a  lousy 
hae'fcrown,  an'  that 's  ivry  penny  —  " 

"  He  thinks  you  've  made  the  rest  up  in  beer,"  she  said 
shortly. 

"  An'  I  'ave  n't  —  that  I  'ave  n't.  You  b'lieve  me,  I  've 
'ad  very  little  this  day,  I  have  an'  all."  His  voice  went 
tender.  "  Here,  an'  I  browt  thee  a  bit  o'  brandysnap,  an' 
a  cocoanut  for  th'  children."  He  laid  the  gingerbread 
and  the  cocoanut,  a  hairy  object,  on  the  table.  "  Nay, 
tha  niver  said  thankyer  for  nowt  i'  thy  life,  did  ter?  " 

As  a  compromise,  she  picked  up  the  cocoanut  and  shook 
it,  to  see  if  it  had  any  milk. 

"  It 's  a  good  'un,  you  may  back  yer  life  o'  that.  I 
got  it  fra'  Bill  Hodgkisson.  '  Bill,'  I  says,  '  that  non 
wants  them  three  nuts,  does  ter?  Arena  ter  for  gi'ein' 
me  one  for  my  bit  of  a  lad  an'  wench?  '  *  I  ham,  Wal- 
ter, my  lad,'  'e  says ;  *  ta'e  which  on  'em  ter  's  a  mind.' 
An'  so  I  took  one,  an'  thanked  'im.  I  did  n't  like  ter 
shake  it  afore  'is  eyes,  but  'e  says,  '  Tha  'd  better  ma'e 
sure  it 's  a  good  un,  Walt.'  An'  so,  yer  see,  I  knowed  it 
was.  He  's  a  nice  chap,  is  Bill  Hodgkisson,  'e  's  a  nice 
chap !  " 

"  A  man  will  part  with  anything  so  long  as  he  's  drunk, 
and  you  're  drunk  along  with  him,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  Eh,  tha  mucky  little  'ussy,  who  's  drunk,  I  sh'd  like 
ter  know?  "  said  Morel.  He  was  extraordinarily  pleased 
with  himself,  because  of  his  day's  helping  to  wait  in  the 
Moon  and  Stars.  He  chattered  on. 

Mrs.  Morel,  very  tired,  and  sick  of  his  babble,  went  to 
bed  as  quickly  as  possible,  while  he  raked  the  fire. 

Mrs.  Morel  came  of  a  good  old  burgher  family,  famous 
independents  who  had  fought  with  Colonel  Hutchinson, 


Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels       11 

and  who  remained  stout  Congregationalists.  Her  grand- 
father had  gone  bankrupt  in  the  lace-market  at  a  time 
when  so  many  lace-manufacturers  were  ruined  in  Notting- 
ham. Her  father,  George  Coppard,  was  an  engineer  —  a 
large,  handsome,  haughty  man,  proud  of  his  fair  skin 
and  blue  eyes,  but  more  proud  still  of  his  integrity.  Ger- 
trude resembled  her  mother  in  her  small  build.  But  her 
temper,  proud  and  unyielding,  she  had  from  the  Coppards. 

George  Coppard  was  bitterly  galled  by  his  own  pov- 
erty. He  became  foreman  of  the  engineers  in  the  dock- 
yard at  Sheerness.  Mrs.  Morel  —  Gertrude  —  was  the 
second  daughter.  She  favoured  her  mother,  loved  her 
mother  best  of  all;  but  she  had  the  Coppards'  clear,  de- 
fiant blue  eyes  and  their  broad  brow.  She  remembered  to 
have  hated  her  father's  overbearing  manner  towards  her 
gentle,  humorous,  kindly-souled  mother.  She  remembered 
running  over  the  breakwater  at  Sheerness  and  finding  the 
boat.  She  remembered  to  have  been  petted  and  flattered 
by  all  the  men  when  she  had  gone  to  the  dockyard,  for  she 
was  a  delicate,  rather  proud  child.  She  remembered  the 
funny  old  mistress,  whose  assistant  she  had  become,  whom 
she  had  loved  to  help  in  the  private  school.  And  she  still 
had  the  Bible  that  John  Field  had  given  her.  She  used 
to  walk  home  from  chapel  with  John  Field  when  she  was 
nineteen.  He  was  the  son  of  a  well-to-do  tradesman,  had 
been  to  college  in  London,  and  was  to  devote  himself  to 
business. 

She  could  always  recall  in  detail  a  September  Sunday 
afternoon,  when  they  had  sat  under  the  vine  at  the  back 
of  her  father's  house.  The  sun  came  through  the  chinks 
in  the  vine-leaves  and  made  beautiful  patterns,  like  a 
lace  scarf,  falling  on  her  and  on  him.  Some  of  the  leaves 
were  clean  yellow,  like  yellow  flat  flowers. 

"  Now  sit  still,"  he  had  cried.  "  Now  your  hair,  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  like !  It 's  as  bright  as  copper  and  gold, 
as  red  as  burnt  copper,  and  it  has  gold  threads  where  the 
sun  shines  on  it.  Fancy  their  saying  it 's  brown.  Your 
mother  calls  it  mouse-colour." 


12  Sons  and  Lovers 

She  had  met  his  brilliant  eyes,  but  her  clear  face 
scarcely  showed  the  elation  which  rose  within  her. 

"  But  you  say  you  don't  like  business,"  she  pursued. 

"  I  don't.     I  hate  it !  "  he  cried  hotly. 

"  And  you  would  like  to  go  into  the  ministry,"  she  half 
implored. 

"  I  should.  I  should  love  it,  if  I  thought  I  could  make 
a  first-rate  preacher." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  —  why  don't  you?  "  Her  voice 
rang  with  defiance.  "  If  /  were  a  man,  nothing  would  stop 
me." 

She  held  her  head  erect.  He  was  rather  timid  before 
her. 

"  But  my  father  's  so  stiff-necked.  He  means  to  put 
me  into  the  business,  and  I  know  he  '11  do  it." 

"  But  if  you  're  a  man?  "  she  had  cried. 

"  Being  a  man  is  n't  everything,"  he  replied,  frowning 
with  puzzled  helplessness. 

Now,  as  she  moved  about  her  work  at  the  Bottoms,  with 
some  experience  of  what  being  a  man  meant,  she  knew  that 
it  was  not  everything. 

At  twenty,  owing  to  her  health,  she  had  left  Sheerness. 
Her  father  had  retired  home  to  Nottingham.  John 
Field's  father  had  been  ruined;  the  so*n  had  gone  as 
a  teacher  in  Norwood.  She  did  not  hear  of  him  until,  two 
years  later,  she  made  determined  inquiry.  He  had  mar- 
ried his  landlady,  a  woman  of  forty,  a  widow  with 
property. 

And  still  Mrs.  Morel  preserved  John  Field's  Bible.  She 
did  not  now  believe  him  to  be  —  Well,  she  understood 
pretty  well  what  he  might  or  might  not  have  been.  So 
she  preserved  his  Bible,  and  kept  his  memory  intact  in  her 
heart,  for  her  own  sake.  To  her  dying  day,  for  thirty- 
five  years,  she  did  not  speak  of  him. 

When  she  was  twenty-three  years  old,  she  met,  at  a 
Christmas  party,  a  young  man  from  the  Erewash  Valley. 
Morel  was  then  twenty-seven  years  old.  He  was  well  set- 
up, erect,  and  very  smart.  He  had  wavy  black  hair  that 


Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels       13 

shone  again,  and  a  vigorous  black  beard  that  had  never 
been  shaved.  His  cheeks  were  ruddy,  and  his  red,  moist 
mouth  was  noticeable  because  he  laughed  so  often  and  so 
heartily.  He  had  that  rare  thing,  a  rich,  ringing  laugh. 
Gertrude  Coppard  had  watched  him,  fascinated.  He  was 
so  full  of  colour  and  animation,  his  voice  ran  so  easily 
into  comic  grotesque,  he  was  so  ready  and  so  pleasant 
with  everybody.  Her  own  father  had  a  rich  fund  of 
humour,  but  it  was  satiric.  This  man's  was  different :  soft, 
non-intellectual,  warm,  a  kind  of  gamboling. 

She  herself  was  opposite.  She  had  a  curious,  recep- 
tive mind,  which  found  much  pleasure  and  amusement  in 
listening  to  other  folk.  She  was  clever  in  leading  folk  on 
to  talk.  She  loved  ideas,  and  was  considered  very  intel- 
lectual. What  she  liked  most  of  all  was  an  argument  on 
religion  or  philosophy  or  politics  with  some  educated  man. 
This  she  did  not  often  enjoy.  So  she  always  had  people 
tell  her  about  themselves,  finding  her  pleasure  so. 

In  her  person  she  was  rather  small  and  delicate,  with 
a  large  brow,  and  dropping  bunches  of  brown  silk  curls. 
Her  blue  eyes  were  very  straight,  honest,  and  searching. 
She  had  the  beautiful  hands  of  the  Coppards.  Her  dress 
was  always  subdued.  She  wore  dark  blue  silk,  with  a 
peculiar  silver  chain  of  silver  scallops.  This,  and  a 
heavy  brooch  of  twisted  gold,  was  her  only  ornament. 
She  was  still  perfectly  intact,  deeply  religious,  and  full 
of  beautiful  candour. 

Walter  Morel  seemed  melted  away  before  her.  She  was 
to  the  miner  that  thing  of  mystery  and  fascination,  a 
lady.  When  she  spoke  to  him,  it  was  with  a  southern 
pronunciation  and  a  purity  of  English  which  thrilled  him 
to  hear.  She  watched  him.  He  danced  well,  as  if  it  were 
natural  and  j  oyous  in  him  to  dance.  His  grandfather  was 
a  French  refugee  who  had  married  an  English  barmaid  — 
if  it  had  been  a  marriage.  Gertrude  Coppard  watched  the 
young  miner  as  he  danced,  a  certain  subtle  exultation  like 
glamour  in  his  movement,  and  his  face  the  flower  of  his 
body,  ruddy,  with  tumbled  black  hair,  and  laughing  alike 


14  Sons  and  Lovers 

whatever  partner  he  bowed  above.  She  thought  him  rather 
wonderful,  never  having  met  anyone  like  him.  Her  father 
was  to  her  the  type  of  all  men.  And  George  Coppard, 
proud  in  his  bearing,  handsome,  and  rather  bitter;  who 
preferred  theology  in  reading,  and  who  drew  near  in  sym- 
pathy only  to  one  man,  the  Apostle  Paul ;  who  was  harsh 
in  government,  and  in  familiarity  ironic;  who  ignored  all 
sensuous  pleasure ;  —  he  was  very  different  from  the  miner. 
Gertrude  herself  was  rather  contemptuous  of  dancing;  she 
had  not  the  slightest  inclination  towards  that  accomplish- 
ment, and  had  never  learned  even  a  Roger  de  Coverley. 
She  was  a  puritan,  like  her  father,  high-minded,  and  really 
stern.  Therefore  the  dusky,  golden  softness  of  this  man's 
sensuous  flame  of  life,  that  flowed  off  his  flesh  like  the 
flame  from  a  candle,  not  baffled  and  gripped  into  incan- 
descence by  thought  and  spirit  as  her  life  was,  seemed 
to  her  something  wonderful,  beyond  her. 

He  came  and  bowed  above  her.  A  warmth  radiated 
through  her  as  if  she  had  drunk  wine. 

"  Now  do  come  and  have  this  one  wi'  me,"  he  said 
caressively.  "  It 's  easy,  you  know.  I  'm  pining  to  see 
you  dance." 

She  had  told  him  before  she  co.uld  not  dance.  She 
glanced  at  his  humility  and  smiled.  Her  smile  was  very 
beautiful.  It  moved  the  man  so  that  he  forgot  everything. 

"  No,  I  won't  dance,"  she  said  softly.  Her  words  came 
clean  and  ringing. 

Not  knowing  what  he  was  doing  —  he  often  did  the 
right  thing  by  instinct  —  he  sat  beside  her,  inclining 
reverentially. 

"  But  you  must  n't  miss  your  dance,"  she  reproved. 

"  Nay,  I  don't  want  to  dance  that  —  it 's  not  one  as 
I  care  about." 

"  Yet  you  invited  me  to  it." 

He  laughed  very  heartily  at  this. 

"  I  never  thought  o'  that.  Tha  'rt  not  long  in  taking 
the  curl  out  of  me." 

It  was  her  turn  to  laugh  quickly. 


Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels      15 

"  You  don't  look  as  if  you  'd  come  much  uncurled,"  she 
said. 

"  I  'm  like  a  pig's  tail,  I  curl  because  I  canna  help  it," 
he  laughed,  rather  boisterously. 

"  And  you  are  a  miner !  "  she  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

"  Yes.    I  went  down  when  I  was  ten." 

She  looked  at  him  in  wondering  dismay. 

"  When  you  were  ten !  And  was  n't  it  very  hard  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  You  soon  get  used  to  it.  You  live  like  th'  mice,  an' 
you  pop  out  at  night  to  see  what 's  going  on." 

"  It  makes  me  feel  blind,"  she  frowned. 

"  Like  a  moudiwarp !  "  he  laughed.  "  Yi,  an'  there  's 
some  chaps  as  does  go  round  like  moudiwarps."  He 
thrust  his  face  forward  in  the  blind,  snout-like  way  of  a 
mole,  seeming  to  sniff  and  peer  for  direction.  "  They  dun 
though !  "  he  protested  naively.  "  Tha  niver  seed  such  a 
way  they  get  in.  But  tha  mun  let  me  ta'e  thee  down  some 
time,  an'  tha  can  see  for  thysen." 

She  looked  at  him,  startled.  This  was  a  new  tract  of 
life  suddenly  opened  before  her.  She  realized  the  life  of 
the  miners,  hundreds  of  them  toiling  below  earth  and  com- 
ing up  at  evening.  He  seemed  to  her  noble.  He  risked 
his  life  daily,  and  with  gaiety.  She  looked  at  him,  with 
a  touch  of  appeal  in  her  pure  humility. 

"  Should  n't  ter  like  it?  "  he  asked  tenderly.  "  'Appen 
not,  it  'ud  dirty  thee." 

She  had  never  been  "  thee'd  "  and  "  thou'd  "  before. 

The  next  Christmas  they  were  married,  and  for  three 
months  she  was  perfectly  happy:  for  six  months  she  was 
very  happy. 

He  had  signed  the  pledge,  and  wore  the  blue  ribbon  of 
a  teetotaller:  he  was  nothing  if  not  showy.  They  lived, 
she  thought,  in  his  own  house.  It  was  small,  but  con- 
venient enough,  and  quite  nicely  furnished,  with  solid, 
worthy  stuff  that  suited  her  honest  soul.  The  women, 
her  neighbours,  were  rather  foreign  to  her,  and  Morel's 
mother  and  sisters  were  apt  to  sneer  at  her  ladylike  ways. 


16  Sons  and  Lovers 

But  she  could  perfectly  well  live  by  herself,  so  long  as 
she  had  her  husband  close. 

Sometimes,  when  she  herself  wearied  of  love-talk,  she 
tried  to  open  her  heart  seriously  to  him.  She  saw  him 
listen  deferentially,  but  without  understanding.  This 
killed  her  efforts  at  a  finer  intimacy,  and  she  had  flashes 
of  fear.  Sometimes  he  was  restless  of  an  evening:  it 
was  not  enough  for  him  just  to  be  near  her,  she  realized. 
She  was  glad  when  he  set  himself  to  little  jobs. 

He  was  a  remarkably  handy  man  —  could  make  or  mend 
anything.  So  she  would  say: 

66 1  do  like  that  coal-rake  of  your  mother's  —  it  is 
small  and  natty." 

"  Does  ter,  my  wench?  Well,  I  made  that,  so  I  can 
make  thee  one." 

"  What !  why  it 's  a  steel  one !  " 

"  An'  what  if  it  is !  Tha  s'lt  ha'e  one  very  similar,  if 
not  exactly  same." 

She  did  not  mind  the  mess,  nor  the  hammering  and 
noise.  He  was  busy  and  happy. 

But  in  the  seventh  month,  when  she  was  brushing  his 
Sunday  coat,  she  felt  papers  in  the  breast-pocket,  and, 
seized  with  a  sudden  curiosity,  took  them  out  to  read.  He 
very  rarely  wore  the  frock-coat  he  was  married  in:  and 
it  had  not  occurred  to  her  before  to  feel  curious  concern- 
ing the  papers.  They  were  the  bills  of  the  household 
furniture,  still  unpaid. 

"  Look  here,"  she  said  at  night,  after  he  was  washed 
and  had  had  his  dinner.  "  I  found  these  in  the  pocket  of 
your  wedding-coat.  Haven't  you  settled  the  bills  yet?  " 

"  No.    I  have  n't  had  a  chance." 

"  But  you  told  me  all  was  paid.  I  had  better  go  into 
Nottingham  on  Saturday  anc  settle  them.  I  don't  like 
sitting  on  another  man's  chairs  and  eating  from  an  unpaid 
table." 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  I  can  have  your  bank-book,  can't  I?  " 

"  Tha  can  ha'e  it,  for  what  good  it  '11  be  to  thee." 


Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels       17 

"  I  thought  —  "  she  began.  He  had  told  her  he  had 
a  good  bit  of  money  left  over.  But  she  realized  it  was  no 
use  asking  questions.  She  sat  rigid  with  bitterness  and 
indignation. 

The  next  day  she  went  down  to  see  his  mother. 

"Didn't  you  buy  the  furniture  for  Walter?"  she 
asked. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  tartly  retorted  the  elder  woman. 

"  And  how  much  did  he  give  you  to  pay  for  it  ?  " 

The  elder  woman  was  stung  with  fine  indignation. 

"  Eighty  pound,  if  you  're  so  keen  on  knowin',"  she 
replied. 

"  Eighty  pounds !  But  there  are  forty-two  pounds  still 
owing !  " 

"  I  can't  help  that." 

"  But  where  has  it  all  gone  ?  " 

"  You  '11  find  all  the  papers,  I  think,  if  you  look  — 
beside  ten  pound  as  he  owed  me,  an'  six  pound  as  the 
wedding  cost  down  here." 

"  Six  pounds !  "  echoed  Gertrude  Morel.  It  seemed  to 
her  monstrous  that,  after  her  own  father  had  paid  so 
heavily  for  her  wedding,  six  pounds  more  should  have  been 
squandered  in  eating  and  drinking  at  Walter's  parents' 
house,  at  his  expense. 

"  And  how  much  has  he  sunk  in  his  houses  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  His  houses  —  which  houses?  " 

Gertrude  Morel  went  white  to  the  lips.  He  had  told 
her  the  house  he  lived  in,  and  the  next  one,  were  his  own. 

"  I  thought  the  house  we  live  in  —  "  she  began. 

"  They  're  my  houses,  those  two,"  said  the  mother-in- 
law.  "  And  not  clear  either.  It 's  as  much  as  I  can  do 
to  keep  tht  mortgage  interest  paid." 

Gertrude  sat  white  and  silent.  She  was  her  father 
now. 

"  Then  we  ought  to  be  paying  you  rent,"  she  said 
coldly. 

"  Walter  is  paying  me  rent,"  replied  the  mother. 

"  And  what  rent?  "  asked  Gertrude. 


18  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Six-and-six  a  week,"  retorted  the  mother. 

It  was  more  than  the  house  was  worth.  Gertrude  held 
her  head  erect,  looked  straight  before  her. 

"  It  is  lucky  to  be  you,"  said  the  elder  woman,  bitingly, 
"  to  have  a  husband  as  takes  all  the  worry  of  the  money, 
and  leaves  you  a  free  hand." 

The  young  wife  was  silent. 

She  said  very  little  to  her  husband,  but  her  manner  had 
changed  towards  him.  Something  in  her  proud,  honour- 
able soul  had  crystallized  out  hard  as  rock. 

When  October  came  in,  she  thought  only  of  Christmas. 
Two  years  ago,  at  Christmas,  she  had  met  him.  Last 
Christmas  she  had  married  him.  This  Christmas  she  would 
bear  him  a  child. 

"  You  don't  dance  yourself,  do  you,  missis?  "  asked  her 
nearest  neighbour,  in  October,  when  there  was  great  talk 
of  opening  a  dancing-class  over  the  Brick  and  Tile  Inn  at 
Bestwood. 

"  No  —  I  never  had  the  least  inclination  to,"  Mrs. 
Morel  replied. 

"  Fancy !  An'  how  funny  as  you  should  ha'  married 
your  Mester.  You  know  he 's  quite  a  famous  one  for 
dancing." 

"  I  did  n't  know  he  was  famous,"  laughed  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  Yea,  he  is  though !  Why,  he  run  that  dancing-class 
in  the  Miners'  Arms  club-room  for  over  five  year." 

"Did  he?" 

"  Yes,  he  did."  The  other  woman  was  defiant.  "  An' 
it  was  thronged  every  Tuesday,  and  Thursday,  an'  Sat'day 
—  an'  there  was  carryin's-on,  accordin'  to  all  accounts." 

This  kind  of  thing  was  gall  and  bitterness  to  Mrs. 
Morel,  and  she  had  a  fair  share  of  it.  The  women  did 
not  spare  her,  at  first;  for  she  was  superior,  though  she 
could  not  help  it. 

He  began  to  be  rather  late  in  coming  home. 

"  They  're  working  very  late  now,  are  n't  they?  "  she 
said  to  her  washer-woman. 

"  No  later  than  they  allers  do,  I  don't  think.    But  they 


Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels       19 

stop  to  have  their  pint  at  Ellen's,  an'  they  get  talkin',  an' 
there  you  are !  Dinner  stone  cold  —  an'  it  serves  'em 
right." 

"  But  Mr.  Morel  does  not  take  any  drink." 

The  woman  dropped  the  clothes,  looked  at  Mrs.  Morel, 
then  went  on  with  her  work,  saying  nothing. 

Gertrude  Morel  was  very  ill  when  the  boy  was  born. 
Morel  was  good  to  her,  as  good  as  gold.  But  she  felt 
very  lonely,  miles  away  from  her  own  people.  She  felt 
lonely  with  him  now,  and  his  presence  only  made  it  more 
intense. 

The  boy  was  small  and  frail  at  first,  but  he  came  on 
quickly.  He  was  a  beautiful  child,  with  dark  gold  ring- 
lets, and  dark-blue  eyes  which  changed  gradually  to  a 
clear  grey.  His  mother  loved  him  passionately.  He 
came  just  when  her  own  bitterness  of  disillusion  was 
hardest  to  bear;  when  her  faith  in  life  was  shaken,  and 
her  soul  felt  dreary  and  lonely.  She  made  much  of  the 
child,  and  the  father  was  jealous. 

At  last  Mrs.  Morel  despised  her  husband.  She  turned 
to  the  child ;  she  turned  from  the  father.  He  had  begun 
to  neglect  her;  the  novelty  of  his  own  home  was  gone. 
He  had  no  grit,  she  said  bitterly  to  herself.  What  he  felt 
just  at  the  minute,  that  was  all  to  him.  He  could  not 
abide  by  anything.  There  was  nothing  at  the  back  of 
all  his  show. 

There  began  a  battle  between  the  husband  and  wife  — 
a  fearful,  bloody  battle  that  ended  only  with  the  death  of 
one.  She  fought  to  make  him  undertake  his  own  responsi- 
bilities, to  make  him  fulfil  his  obligations.  But  he  was  too 
different  from  her.  His  nature  was  purely  sensuous,  and 
she  strove  to  make  him  moral,  religious.  She  tried  to 
force  him  to  face  things.  He  could  not  endure  it  —  it 
drove  him  out  of  his  mind. 

While  the  baby  was  still  tiny,  the  father's  temper  had 
become  so  irritable  that  it  was  not  to  be  trusted.  The 
child  had  only  to  give  a  little  trouble  when  the  man  began 
to  bully.  A  little  more,  and  the  hard  hands  of  the  collier 


20  Sons  and  Lovers 

hit  the  baby.  Then  Mrs.  Morel  loathed  her  husband, 
loathed  him  for  days;  and  he  went  out  and  drank;  and 
she  cared  very  little  what  he  did.  Only,  on  his  return, 
she  scathed  him  with  her  satire. 

The  estrangement  between  them  caused  him,  knowingly 
or  unknowingly,  grossly  to  offend  her  where  he  would  not 
have  done. 

William  was  only  one  year  old,  and  his  mother  was 
proud  of  him,  he  was  so  pretty.  She  was  not  well  off  now, 
but  her  sisters  kept  the  boy  in  clothes.  Then,  with  his 
little  white  hat  curled  with  an  ostrich  feather,  and  his 
white  coat,  he  was  a  joy  to  her,  the  twining  wisps  of  hair 
clustering  round  his  head.  Mrs.  Morel  lay  listening,  one 
Sunday  morning,  to  the  chatter  of  the  father  and  child 
downstairs.  Then  she  dozed  off.  When  she  came  down- 
stairs, a  great  fire  glowed  in  the  grate,  the  room  was  hot, 
the  breakfast  was  roughly  laid,  and  seated  in  his  arm- 
chair, against  the  chimney-piece,  sat  Morel,  rather  timid; 
and  standing  between  his  legs,  the  child  —  cropped  like  a 
sheep,  with  such  an  odd  round  poll  —  looking  wondering 
at  her ;  and  on  a  newspaper  spread  out  upon  the  hearth- 
rug, a  myriad  of  crescent-shaped  curls,  like  the  petals  of 
a  marigold  scattered  in  the  reddening  firelight. 

Mrs.  Morel  stood  still.  It  was  her  first  baby.  She 
went  very  white,  and  was  unable  to  speak. 

"  What  dost  think  o'  'im?  "  Morel  laughed  uneasily. 

She  gripped  her  two  fists,  lifted  them,  and  came  for- 
ward. Morel  shrank  back. 

"  I  could  kill  you,  I  could !  "  she  said.  She  choked  with 
rage,  her  two  fists  uplifted. 

"  Yer  non  want  ter  make  a  wench  on  5im,"  Morel  said, 
in  a  frightened  tone,  bending  his  head  to  shield  his  eyes 
from  hers.  His  attempt  at  laughter  had  vanished. 

The  mother  looked  down  at  the  jagged,  close-clipped 
head  of  her  child.  She  put  her  hands  on  his  hair,  and 
stroked  and  fondled  his  head. 

"  Oh  —  my  boy !  "  she  faltered.  Her  lip  trembled,  her 
face  broke,  and,  snatching  up  the  child,  she  buried  her  face 


Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels      21 

in  his  shoulder  and  cried  painfully.  She  was  one  of  those 
women  who  cannot  cry ;  whom  it  hurts  as  it  hurts  a  man. 
It  was  like  ripping  something  out  of  her,  her  sobbing. 

Morel  sat  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  hands 
gripped  together  till  the  knuckles  were  white.  He  gazed 
in  the  fire,  feeling  almost  stunned,  as  if  he  could  not 
breathe. 

Presently  she  came  to  an  end,  soothed  the  child  and 
cleared  away  the  breakfast-table.  She  left  the  newspaper, 
littered  with  curls,  spread  upon  the  hearthrug.  At  last 
her  husband  gathered  it  up  and  put  it  at  the  back  of  the 
fire.  She  went  about  her  work  with  closed  mouth,  and 
very  quiet.  Morel  was  subdued.  He  crept  about  wretch- 
edly, and  his  meals  were  a  misery  that  day.  She  spoke 
to  him  civilly,  and  never  alluded  to  what  he  had  done. 
But  he  felt  something  final  had  happened. 

Afterwards  she  said  she  had  been  silly,  that  the  boy's 
hair  would  have  had  to  be  cut,  sooner  or  later.  In  the 
end,  she  even  brought  herself  to  say  to  her  husband  it  was 
just  as  well  he  had  played  barber  when  he  did.  But  she 
knew,  and  Morel  knew,  that  that  act  had  caused  something 
momentous  to  take  place  in  her  soul.  She  remembered 
the  scene  all  her  life,  as  one  in  which  she  had  suffered 
the  most  intensely. 

This  act  of  masculine  clumsiness  was  the  spear  through 
the  side  of  her  love  for  Morel.  Before,  while  she  had 
striven  against  him  bitterly,  she  had  fretted  after  him,  as 
if  fie  had  gone  astray  from  her.  Now  she  ceased  to  fret 
for  his  love:  he  was  an  outsider  to  her.  This  made  life 
much  more  bearable. 

Nevertheless,  she  still  continued  to  strive  with  him.  She 
still  had  her  high  moral  sense,  inherited  from  generations 
of  Puritans.  It  was  now  a  religious  instinct,  and  she  was 
almost  a  fanatic  with  him,  because  she  loved  him,  or  had 
loved  him.  If  he  sinned,  she  tortured  him.  If  he  drank, 
and  lied,  was  often  a  poltroon,  sometimes  a  knave,  she 
wielded  the  lash  unmercifully. 

The  pity  was,  she  was  too  much  his  opposite.     She 


22  Sons  and  Lovers 

could  not  be  content  with  the  little  he  might  be ;  she  would 
have  him  the  much  that  he  ought  to  be.  So,  in  seeking 
to  make  him  nobler  than  he  could  be,  she  destroyed  him. 
She  injured  and  hurt  and  scarred  herself,  but  she  lost  none 
of  her  worth.  She  also  had  the  children. 

He  drank  rather  heavily,  though  not  more  than  many 
miners,  and  always  beer,  so  that  whilst  his  health  was 
affected,  it  was  never  injured.  The  week-end  was  his  chief 
carouse.  He  sat  in  the  Miners'  Arms  until  turning-out 
time  every  Friday,  every  Saturday,  and  every  Sunday 
evening.  On  Monday  and  Tuesday  he  had  to  get  up  and 
reluctantly  leave  towards  ten  o'clock.  Sometimes  he 
stayed  at  home  on  Wednesday  and  Thursday  evenings, 
or  was  only  out  for  an  hour.  He  practically  never  had 
to  miss  work  owing  to  his  drinking. 

But  although  he  was  very  steady  at  work,  his  wages 
fell  off.  He  was  blab-mouthed,  a  tongue-wagger.  Au- 
thority was  hateful  to  him,  therefore  he  could  only  abuse 
the  pit-managers.  He  would  say,  in  the  Palmerston: 

"  Th'  gaffer  come  down  to  our  stal  this  morning,  an'  'e 
says,  *  You  know,  Walter,  this  'ere  '11  not  do.  What  about 
these  props?  '  An'  I  says  to  him,  '  Why,  what  art  talkin' 
about?  What  d'st  mean  about  th*  props?  '  *  It  '11  never 
do,  this  'ere,'  'e  says.  '  You  '11  be  havin'  th'  roof  in,  one 
o'  these  days.'  An'  I  says,  *  Tha  'd  better  stan'  on  a  bit 
o'  clunch,  then,  an'  hold  it  up  wi'  thy  'ead.'  So  'e  wor 
that  mad,  'e  cossed  an'  'e  swore,  an'  t'  other  chaps  they 
did  laugh."  Morel  was  a  good  mimic.  He  imitated  the 
manager's  fat,  squeaky  voice,  with  its  attempt  at  good 
English. 

"  '  I  shan't  have  it,  Walter.  Who  knows  more  about  it, 
me  or  you?  '  So  I  says,  *  I  've  niver  fun  out  how  much 
tha'  knows,  Alfred.  It  '11  'appen  carry  thee  ter  bed  an' 
back.'  " 

So  Morel  would  go  on  to  the  amusement  of  his  boon 
companions.  And  some  of  this  would  be  true.  The  pit- 
manager  was  not  an  educated  man.  He  had  been  a  boy 
along  with  Morel,  so  that,  while  the  two  disliked  each 


Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels      23 

other,  they  more  or  less  took  each  other  for  granted. 
But  Alfred  Charlesworth  did  not  forgive  the  butty  these 
public-house  sayings.  Consequently,  although  Morel  was 
a  good  miner,  sometimes  earning  as  much  as  five  pounds 
a  week  when  he  married,  he  came  gradually  to  have  worse 
and  worse  stals,  where  the  coal  was  thin,  and  hard  to  get, 
and  unprofitable. 

Also,  in  summer,  the  pits  are  slack.  Often,  on  bright 
sunny  mornings,  the  men  are  seen  trooping  home  again 
at  ten,  eleven,  or  twelve  o'clock.  No  empty  trucks  stand 
at  the  pit-mouth.  The  women  on  the  hillside  look  across 
as  they  shake  the  hearthrug  against  the  fence,  and  count 
the  waggons  the  engine  is  taking  along  the  line  up  the 
valley.  And  the  children,  as  they  come  from  school  at 
dinner-time,  looking  down  the  fields  and  seeing  the  wheels 
on  the  headstocks  standing,  say: 

"  Minton  's  knocked  off.    My  dad  '11  be  at  home." 

And  there  is  a  sort  of  shadow  over  all,  women  and 
children  and  men,  because  money  will  be  short  at  the  end 
of  the  week. 

Morel  was  supposed  to  give  his  wife  thirty  shillings 
a  week,  to  provide  everything  —  rent,  food,  clothes,  clubs, 
insurance,  doctors.  Occasionally,  if  he  were  flush,  he 
gave  her  thirty-five.  But  these  occasions  by  no  means 
balanced  those  when  he  gave  her  twenty-five.  In  winter, 
with  a  decent  stall,  the  miner  might  earn  fifty  or  fifty- 
five  shillings  a  week.  Then  he  was  happy.  On  Friday 
night,  Saturday,  and  Sunday,  he  spent  royally,  getting 
rid  of  his  sovereign  or  thereabouts.  And  out  of  so  much, 
he  scarcely  spared  the  children  an  extra  penny  or  bought 
them  a  pound  of  apples.  It  all  went  in  drink.  In  the 
bad  times,  matters  were  more  worrying,  but  he  was  not  so 
often  drunk,  so  that  Mrs.  Morel  used  to  say: 

"  I  'm  not  sure  I  would  n't  rather  be  short,  for  when 
he  's  flush,  there  is  n't  a  minute  of  peace." 

If  he  earned  forty  shillings  he  kept  ten;  from  thirty- 
five  he  kept  five;  from  thirty-two  he  kept  four;  from 
twenty-eight  he  kept  three;  from  twenty- four  he  kept 


24  Sons  and  Lovers 

two ;  from  twenty  he  kept  one-and-six ;  from  eighteen  he 
kept  a  shilling ;  from  sixteen  he  kept  sixpence.  He  never 
saved  a  penny,  and  he  gave  his  wife  no  opportunity  of  sav- 
ing; instead,  she  had  occasionally  to  pay  his  debts;  not 
public-house  debts,  for  those  never  were  passed  on  to 
the  women,  but  debts  when  he  had  bought  a  canary,  or  a 
fancy  walking-stick. 

At  the  wakes  time,  Morel  was  working  badly,  and  Mrs. 
Morel  was  trying  to  save  against  her  confinement.  So  it 
galled  her  bitterly  to  think  he  should  be  out  taking  his 
pleasure  and  spending  money,  whilst  she  remained  at  home, 
harassed.  There  were  two  days  holiday.  On  the  Tues- 
day morning  Morel  rose  early.  He  was  in  good  spirits. 
Quite  early,  before  six  o'clock,  she  heard  him  whistling 
away  to  himself  downstairs.  He  had  a  pleasant  way  of 
whistling,  lively  and  musical.  He  nearly  always  whistled 
hymns.  He  had  been  a  choir-boy  with  a  beautiful  voice, 
and  had  taken  solos  in  Southwell  cathedral.  His  morning 
whistling  alone  betrayed  it. 

His  wife  lay  listening  to  him  tinkering  away  in  the 
garden,  his  whistling  ringing  out  as  he  sawed  and  ham- 
mered away.  It  always  gave  her  a  sense  of  warmth  and 
peace  to  hear  him  thus  as  she  lay  in  bed,  the  children  not 
yet  awake,  in  the  bright  early  morning,  happy  in  his 
man's  fashion. 

At  nine  o'clock,  while  the  children  with  bare  legs  and 
feet  were  sitting  playing  on  the  sofa,  and  the  mother  was 
washing  up,  he  came  in  from  his  carpentry,  his  sleeves 
rolled  up,  his  waistcoat  hanging  open.  He  was  still  a 
good-looking  man,  with  black,  wavy  hair,  and  a  large 
black  moustache.  His  face  was  perhaps  too  much  in- 
flamed, and  there  was  about  him  a  look  almost  of  peevish- 
ness. But  now  he  was  jolly.  He  went  straight  to  the 
sink  where  his  wife  was  washing  up. 

"  What,  are  thee  there !  "  he  said  boisterously.  "  Sluther 
off  an'  let  me  wesh  mysen." 

"  You  may  wait  till  I  've  finished,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Oh,  mun  I?    An'  what  if  I  shonna?  " 


Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels      %5 

This  good-humoured  threat  amused  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  Then  you  can  go  and  wash  yourself  in  the  soft-water 
tub." 

"  Ha !    I  can  an'  a',  tha  mucky  little  'ussy." 

With  which  he  stood  watching  her  a  moment,  then  went 
away  to  wait  for  her. 

When  he  chose  he  could  still  make  himself  again  a  real 
gallant.  Usually  he  preferred  to  go  out  with  a  scarf 
round  his  neck.  Now,  however,  he  made  a  toilet.  There 
seemed  so  much  gusto  in  the  way  he  puffed  and  swilled 
as  he  washed  himself,  so  much  alacrity  with  which  he  hur- 
ried to  the  mirror  in  the  kitchen,  and,  bending  because  it 
was  too  low  for  him,  scrupulously  parted  his  wet  black 
hair,  that  it  irritated  Mrs.  Morel.  He  put  on  a  turn- 
down collar,  a  black  bow,  and  wore  his  Sunday  tail-coat. 
As  such,  he  looked  spruce,  and  what  his  clothes  would 
not  do,  his  instinct  for  making  the  most  of  his  good  looks 
would. 

At  half-past  nine  Jerry  Purdy  came  to  call  for  his  pal. 
Jerry  was  Morel's  bosom  friend,  and  Mrs.  Morel  disliked 
him.  He  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  a  rather  foxy  face, 
the  kind  of  face  that  seems  to  lack  eyelashes.  He  walked 
with  a  stiff,  brittle  dignity,  as  if  his  head  were  on  a  wooden 
spring.  His  nature  was  cold  and  shrewd.  Generous  where 
he  intended  to  be  generous,  he  seemed  to  be  very  fond  of 
Morel,  and  more  or  less  to  take  charge  of  him. 

Mrs.  Morel  hated  him.  She  had  known  his  wife,  who 
had  died  of  consumption,  and  who  had,  at  the  end,  con- 
ceived such  a  violent  dislike  of  her  husband,  that  if  he 
came  into  her  room  it  caused  her  hsemorrhage.  None  of 
which  Jerry  had  seemed  to  mind.  And  now  his  eldest 
daughter,  a  girl  of  fifteen,  kept  a  poor  house  for  him,  and 
looked  after  the  two  younger  children. 

"  A  mean,  wizzen-hearted  stick !  "  Mrs.  Morel  said  of 
him. 

"  I  've  never  known  Jerry  mean  in  my  life,"  protested 
Morel.  "  A  opener-handed  and  more  freer  chap  you 
could  n't  find  anywhere,  accordin'  to  my  knowledge." 


26  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Open-handed  to  you,"  retorted  Mrs.  Morel.  "  But 
his  fist  is  shut  tight  enough  to  his  children,  poor 
things." 

"  Poor  things !  And  what  for  are  they  poor  things,  I 
should  like  to  know?  " 

But  Mrs.  Morel  would  not  be  appeased  on  Jerry's 
score. 

The  subject  of  argument  was  seen,  craning  his  thin 
neck  over  the  scullery  curtain.  He  caught  Mrs.  Morel's 
eye. 

"  Mornin',  missis !    Mester  in?  " 

"Yes  — he  is." 

Jerry  entered  unasked,  and  stood  by  the  kitchen  door- 
way. He  was  not  invited  to  sit  down,  but  stood  there, 
coolly  asserting  the  rights  of  men  and  husbands. 

"  A  nice  day,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  Yes." 

"  Grand  out  this  morning  —  grand  for  a  walk." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  're  going  for  a  walk?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes.    We  mean  walkin'  to  Nottingham,"  he  replied. 

"H'm!" 

The  two  men  greeted  each  other,  both  glad :  Jerry,  how- 
ever, full  of  assurance,  Morel  rather  subdued,  afraid  to 
seem  too  jubilant  in  presence  of  his  wife.  But  he  laced 
his  boots  quickly,  with  spirit.  They  were  going  for  a  ten- 
mile  walk  across  the  fields  to  Nottingham.  Climbing  the 
hillside  from  the  Bottoms,  they  mounted  gaily  into  the 
morning.  At  the  Moon  and  Stars  they  had  their  first 
drink,  then  on  to  the  Old  Spot.  Then  a  long  five  miles 
of  drought  to  carry  them  into  Bulwell  to  a  glorious  pint 
of  bitter.  But  they  stayed  in  a  field  with  some  haymakers 
whose  gallon  bottle  was  full,  so  that,  when  they  came  in 
sight  of  the  city,  Morel  was  sleepy.  The  town  spread 
upwards  before  them,  smoking  vaguely  in  the  midday 
glare,  fridging  the  crest  away  to  the  south  with  spires  and 
factory  bulks  and  chimneys.  In  the  last  field  Morel  lay 
down  under  an  oak-tree  and  slept  soundly  for  over  an 
hour.  When  he  arose  to  go  forward  he  felt  queer. 


Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels      %7 

The  two  had  dinner  in  the  Meadows,  with  Jerry's  sister, 
then  repaired  to  the  Punch  Bowl,  where  they  mixed  in  the 
excitement  of  pigeon-racing.  Morel  never  in  his  life 
played  cards,  considering  them  as  having  some  occult, 
malevolent  power  — "  the  devil's  pictures,"  he  called 
them !  But  he  was  a  master  of  skittles  and  of  dominoes. 
He  took  a  challenge  from  a  Newark  man,  on  skittles.  All 
the  men  in  the  old,  long  bar  took  sides,  betting  either  one 
way  or  the  other.  Morel  took  off  his  coat.  Jerry  held 
the  hat  containing  the  money.  The  men  at  the  tables 
watched.  Some  stood  with  their  mugs  in  their  hands. 
Morel  felt  his  big  wooden  ball  carefully,  then  launched 
it.  He  played  havoc  among  the  nine-pins,  and  won  half- 
a-crown,  which  restored  him  to  solvency. 

By  seven  o'clock  the  two  were  in  good  condition.  They 
caught  the  7.30  train  home. 

In  the  afternoon  the  Bottoms  was  intolerable.  Every 
inhabitant  remaining  was  out  of  doors.  The  women,  in 
twos  and  threes,  bareheaded  and  in  white  aprons,  gos- 
siped in  the  alley  between  the  blocks.  Men,  having  a  rest 
between  drinks,  sat  on  their  heels  and  talked.  The  place 
smelled  stale;  the  slate  roofs  glistered  in  the  arid 
heat. 

Mrs.  Morel  took  the  little  girl  down  to  the  brook  in 
the  meadows,  which  were  not  more  than  two  hundred  yards 
away.  The  water  ran  quickly  over  stones  and  broken 
pots.  Mother  and  child  leaned  on  the  rail  of  the  old 
sheep-bridge,  watching.  Up  at  the  dipping-hole,  at  the 
other  end  of  the  meadow,  Mrs.  Morel  could  see  the  naked 
forms  of  boys  flashing  round  the  deep  yellow  water,  or 
an  occasional  bright  figure  dart  glittering  over  the  black- 
ish stagnant  meadow.  She  knew  William  was  at  the  dip- 
ping-hole, and  it  was  the  dread  of  her  life  lest  he  should 
get  drowned.  Annie  played  under  the  tall  old  hedge, 
picking  up  alder  cones,  that  she  called  currants.  The 
child  required  much  attention,  and  the  flies  were  teasing. 

The  children  were  put  to  bed  at  seven  o'clock.  Then 
she  worked  awhile. 


28  Sons  and  Lovers 

When  Walter  Morel  and  Jerry  arrived  at  Bestwood 
they  felt  a  load  off  their  minds;  a  railway  journey  no 
longer  impended,  so  they  could  put  the  finishing  touches 
to  a  glorious  day.  They  entered  the  Nelson  with  the 
satisfaction  of  returned  travellers. 

The  next  day  was  a  work-day,  and  the  thought  of  it 
put  a  damper  on  the  men's  spirits.  Most  of  them,  more- 
over, had  spent  their  money.  Some  were  already  rolling 
dismally  home,  to  sleep  in  preparation  for  the  morrow. 
Mrs.  Morel,  listening  to  their  mournful  singing,  went  in- 
doors. Nine  o'clock  passed,  and  ten,  and  still  "  the 
pair  "  had  not  returned.  On  a  doorstep  somewhere  a 
man  was  singing  loudly,  in  a  drawl,  "  Lead,  kindly  Light." 
Mrs.  Morel  was  always  indignant  with  the  drunken  men 
that  they  must  sing  that  hymn  when  they  got  maudlin. 

"  As  if  '  Genevieve  '  were  n't  good  enough,"  she  said. 

The  kitchen  was  full  of  the  scent  of  boiled  herbs  and 
hops.  On  the  hob  a  large  black  saucepan  steamed  slowly. 
Mrs.  Morel  took  a  panchion,  a  great  bowl  of  thick  red 
earth,  streamed  a  heap  of  white  sugar  into  the  bottom, 
and,  then,  straining  herself  to  the  weight,  was  pouring  in 
the  liquor. 

Just  then  Morel  came  in.  He  had  been  very  jolly  in 
the  Nelson,  but  coming  home  had  grown  irritable.  He  had 
not  quite  got  over  the  feeling  of  irritability  and  pain,  after 
having  slept  on  the  ground  when  he  was  so  hot;  and  a 
bad  conscience  afflicted  him  as  he  neared  the  house.  He 
did  not  know  he  was  angry.  But  when  the  garden-gate 
resisted  his  attempts  to  open  it,  he  kicked  it  and  broke 
the  latch.  He  entered  just  as  Mrs.  Morel  was  pouring 
the  infusion  of  herbs  out  of  the  saucepan.  Swaying 
slightly,  he  lurched  against  the  table.  The  boiling  liquor 
pitched.  Mrs.  Morel  started  back. 

"  Good  gracious,"  she  cried,  "  coming  home  in  his 
drunkenness !  " 

"  Comin'  home  in  his  what?  "  he  snarled,  his  hat  over 
his  eye. 

Suddenly  her  blood  rose  in  a  jet. 


Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels      29 

"  Say  you  're  not  drunk!  "  she  flashed. 

She  had  put  down  her  saucepan,  and  was  stirring  the 
sugar  into  the  beer.  He  dropped  his  two  hands  heavily 
on  the  table,  and  thrust  his  face  forward  at  her. 

"  '  Say  you  're  not  drunk,'  "  he  repeated.  "  Why,  no- 
body but  a  nasty  little  bitch  like  you  'ud  'ave  such  a 
thought." 

He  thrust  his  face  forward  at  her. 

"  There  's  money  to  bezzle  with,  if  there  's  money  for 
nothing  else." 

"  I  've  not  spent  a  two-shillin'  bit  this  day,"  he  said. 

"  You  don't  get  as  drunk  as  a  lord  on  nothing,"  she 
replied.  "  And,"  she  cried,  flashing  into  sudden  fury,  "  if 
you  've  been  sponging  on  your  beloved  Jerry,  why,  let  him 
look  after  his  children,  for  they  need  it." 

"  It 's  a  lie,  it 's  a  lie.    Shut  your  face,  woman." 

They  were  now  at  battle-pitch.  Each  forgot  everything 
save  the  hatred  of  the  other  and  the  battle  between  them. 
She  was  fiery  and  furious  as  he.  They  went  on  till  he 
called  her  a  liar. 

"  No,"  she  cried,  starting  up,  scarce  able  to  breathe. 
"  Don't  call  me  that  —  you,  the  most  despicable  liar  that 
ever  walked  in  shoe-leather."  She  forced  the  last  words 
out  of  suffocated  lungs. 

"  You  're  a  liar !  "  he  yelled,  banging  the  table  with  his 
fist.  "  You  're  a  liar,  you  're  a  liar." 

She  stiffened  herself,  with  clenched  fists. 

"  The  house  is  filthy  with  you,"  she  cried. 

"  Then  get  out  on  it  —  it 's  mine.  Get  out  on  it !  "  he 
shouted.  "  It  's  me  as  brings  th'  money  whoam,  not  thee. 
It 's  my  house,  not  thine.  Then  ger  out  on't  —  ger  out 
on't!" 

"  And  I  would,"  she  cried,  suddenly  shaken  into  tears 
of  impotence.  "  Ah,  would  n't  I,  would  n't  I  have  gone 
long  ago,  but  for  those  children.  Ay,  have  n't  I  repented 
not  going  years  ago,  when  I  'd  only  the  one  "  - —  suddenly 
drying  into  rage.  "  Do  you  think  it  's  for  you  I  stop  — 
do  you  think  I  'd  stop  one  minute  for  you?  " 


30  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Go,  then,"  he  shouted,  beside  himself.    "  Go !  " 

"  No  !  "  she  faced  round.  "  No,"  she  cried  loudly,  "  you 
shan't  have  it  all  your  own  way;  you  shan't  do  all  you 
like.  I  've  got  those  children  to  see  to.  My  word,"  she 
laughed,  "  I  should  look  well  to  leave  them  to  you." 

"  Go,"  he  cried  thickly,  lifting  his  fist.  He  was  afraid 
of  her.  "Go!" 

"  I  should  be  only  too  glad.  I  should  laugh,  laugh,  my 
lord,  if  I  could  get  away  from  you,"  she  replied. 

He  came  up  to  her,  his  red  face,  with  its  bloodshot  eyes, 
thrust  forward,  and  gripped  her  arms.  She  cried  in  fear 
of  him,  struggled  to  be  free.  Coming  slightly  to  himself, 
panting,  he  pushed  her  roughly  to  the  outer  door,  and 
thrust  her  forth,  slotting  the  bolt  behind  her  with  a  bang. 
Then  he  went  back  into  the  kitchen,  dropped  into  his  arm- 
chair, his  head,  bursting  full  of  blood,  sinking  between 
his  knees.  Thus  he  dipped  gradually  into  a  stupor,  from 
exhaustion  and  intoxication. 

The  moon  was  high  and  magnificent  in  the  August  night. 
Mrs.  Morel,  seared  with  passion,  shivered  to  find  herself 
out  there  in  a  great  white  light,  that  fell  cold  on  her,  and 
gave  a  shock  to  her  inflamed  souL  She  stood  for  a  few 
moments  helplessly  staring  at  the  glistening  great  rhubarb 
leaves  near  the  door.  Then  she  got  the  air  into  her  breast. 
She  walked  down  the  garden  path,  trembling  in  every  limb, 
while  the  child  boiled  within  her.  For  a  while  she  could 
not  control  her  consciousness ;  mechanically  she  went  over 
the  last  scene,  then  over  it  again,  certain  phrases,  certain 
moments  coming  each  time  like  a  brand  red-hot  down  on 
her  soul ;  and  each  time  she  enacted  again  the  past  hour, 
each  time  the  brand  came  down  at  the  same  points,  till 
the  mark  was  burnt  in,  and  the  pain  burnt  out,  and  at 
last  she  came  to  herself.  She  must  have  been  half  an 
hour  in  this  delirious  condition.  Then  the  presence  of  the 
night  came  again  to  her.  She  glanced  round  in  fear.  She 
had  wandered  to  the  side  garden,  where  she  was  walking 
up  and  down  the  path  beside  the  currant  bushes  under 
the  long  wall.  The  garden  was  a  narrow  strip,  bounded 


Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels      31 

from  the  road,  that  cut  transversely  between  the  blocks, 
by  a  thick  thorn  hedge. 

She  hurried  out  of  the  side  garden  to  the  front,  where 
she  could  stand  as  if  in  an  immense  gulf  of  white  light,  the 
moon  streaming  high  in  face  of  her,  the  moonlight  stand- 
ing up  from  the  hills  in  front,  and  filling  the  valley  where 
the  Bottoms  crouched,  almost  blindingly.  There,  panting 
and  half  weeping  in  reaction  from  the  stress,  she  mur- 
mured to  herself  over  and  over  again :  "  The  nuisance ! 
the  nuisance !  " 

She  became  aware  of  something  about  her.  With  an 
effort  she  roused  herself  to  see  what  it  was  that  penetrated 
her  consciousness.  The  tall  white  lilies  were  reeling  in  the 
moonlight,  and  the  air  was  charged  with  their  perfume, 
as  with  a  presence.  Mrs.  Morel  gasped  slightly  in  fear. 
She  touched  the  big,  pallid  flowers  on  their  petals,  then 
shivered.  They  seemed  to  be  stretching  in  the  moonlight. 
She  put  her  hand  into  one  white  bin:  the  gold  scarcely 
showed  on  her  fingers  by  moonlight.  She  bent  down  to 
look  at  the  binful  of  yellow  pollen;  but  it  only  appeared 
dusky.  Then  she  drank  a  deep  draught  of  the  scent.  It 
almost  made  her  dizzy. 

Mrs.  Morel  leaned  on  the  garden  gate,  looking  out, 
and  she  lost  herself  awhile.  She  did  not  know  what  she 
thought.  Except  for  a  slight  feeling  of  sickness,  and  her 
consciousness  in  the  child,  herself  melted  out  like  scent  into 
the  shiny,  pale  air.  After  a  time  the  child,  too,  melted 
with  her  in  the  mixing-pot  of  moonlight,  and  she  rested 
with  the  hills  and  lilies  and  houses,  all  swum  together  in  a 
kind  of  swoon. 

When  she  came  to  herself  she  was  tired  for  sleep.  Lan- 
guidly she  looked  about  her;  the  clumps  of  white  phlox 
seemed  like  bushes  spread  with  linen ;  a  moth  ricochetted 
over  them,  and  right  across  the  garden.  Following  it  with 
her  eye  roused  her.  A  few  whiffs  of  the  raw,  strong  scent 
of  phlox  invigorated  her.  She  passed  along  the  path,  hesi- 
tating at  the  white  rosebush.  It  smelled  sweet  and  simple. 
She  touched  the  white  ruffles  of  the  roses.  Their  fresh 


32  Sons  and  Lovers 

scent  and  cool,  soft  leaves  reminded  her  of  the  morning- 
time  and  sunshine.  She  was  very  fond  of  them.  But  she 
was  tired,  and  wanted  to  sleep.  In  the  mysterious  out-of- 
doors  she  felt  forlorn. 

There  was  no  noise  anywhere.  Evidently  the  children 
had  not  been  wakened,  or  had  gone  to  sleep  again.  A 
train,  three  miles  away,  roared  across  the  valley.  The 
night  was  very  large,  and  very  strange,  stretching  its 
hoary  distances  infinitely.  And  out  of  the  silver-grey  fog 
of  darkness  came  sounds  vague  and  hoarse:  a  corncrake 
not  far  off,  sound  of  a  train  like  a  sigh,  and  distant  shouts 
of  men. 

Her  quietened  heart  beginning  to  beat  quickly  again, 
she  hurried  down  the  side  garden  to  the  back  of  the  house. 
Softly  she  lifted  the  latch ;  the  door  was  still  bolted,  shut 
hard  against  her.  She  rapped  gently,  waited,  then  rapped 
again.  She  must  not  rouse  the  children,  nor  the  neigh- 
bours. He  must  be  asleep,  and  he  would  not  wake  easily. 
Her  heart  began  to  burn  to  be  indoors.  She  clung  to  the 
door-handle.  Now  it  was  cold ;  she  would  take  a  chill,  and 
in  her  present  condition ! 

Putting  her  apron  over  her  head  and  her  arms,  she 
hurried  again  to  the  side  garden,  to  the  window  of  the 
kitchen.  Leaning  on  the  sill,  she  could  just  see,  under  the 
blind,  her  husband's  arms  spread  out  on  the  table,  and 
his  black  head  on  the  board.  He  was  sleeping  with  his 
face  lying  on  the  table.  Something  in  his  attitude  made 
her  feel  tired  of  things.  The  lamp  was  burning  smokily; 
she  could  tell  by  the  copper  colour  of  the  light.  She 
tapped  at  the  window  more  and  more  noisily.  Almost  it 
seemed  as  if  the  glass  would  break.  Still  he  did  not  wake 
up. 

After  vain  efforts,  she  began  to  shiver,  partly  from  con- 
tact with  the  stone,  and  from  exhaustion.  Fearful  always 
for  the  unborn  child,  she  wondered  what  she  could  do  for 
warmth.  She  went  down  to  the  coal-house,  where  was  an 
old  hearthrug  she  had  carried  out  for  the  rag-man  the  day 
before.  This  she  wrapped  over  her  shoulders.  It  was 


Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels       33 

warm,  if  grimy.  Then  she  walked  up  and  down  the  gar- 
den path,  peeping  every  now  and  then  under  the  blind, 
knocking,  and  telling  herself  that  in  the  end  the  very 
strain  of  his  position  must  wake  him. 

At  last,  after  about  an  hour,  she  rapped  long  and  low 
at  the  window.  Gradually  the  sound  penetrated  to  him. 
When,  in  despair,  she  had  ceased  to  tap,  she  saw  him 
stir,  then  lift  his  face  blindly.  The  labouring  of  his  heart 
hurt  him  into  consciousness.  She  rapped  imperatively  at 
the  window.  He  started  awake.  Instantly  she  saw  his 
fists  set  and  his  eyes  glare.  He  had  not  a  grain  of 
physical  fear.  If  it  had  been  twenty  burglars,  he  would 
have  gone  blindly  for  them.  He  glared  round,  bewildered, 
but  prepared  to  fight. 

"  Open  the  door,  Walter,"  she  said  coldly. 

His  hands  relaxed.  It  dawned  on  him  what  he  had  done. 
His  head  dropped,  sullen  and  dogged.  She  saw  him  hurry 
to  the  door,  heard  the  bolt  chock.  He  tried  the  latch.  It 
opened  —  and  there  stood  the  silver-grey  night,  fearful 
to  him,  after  the  tawny  light  of  the  lamp.  He  hurried 
back. 

When  Mrs.  Morel  entered,  she  saw  him  almost  running 
through  the  door  to  the  stairs.  He  had  ripped  his  collar 
off  his  neck  in  his  haste  to  be  gone  ere  she  came  in,  and 
there  it  lay  with  bursten  button-holes.  It  made  her 
angry. 

She  warmed  and  soothed  herself.  In  her  weariness  for- 
getting everything,  she  moved  about  at  the  little  tasks  that 
remained  to  be  done,  set  his  breakfast,  rinsed  his  pit-bottle, 
put  his  pit-clothes  on  the  hearth  to  warm,  set  his  pit-boots 
beside  them,  put  him  out  a  clean  scarf  and  snap-bag  and 
two  apples,  raked  the  fire,  and  went  to  bed.  He  was 
already  dead  asleep.  His  narrow  black  eyebrows  were 
drawn  up  in  a  sort  of  peevish  misery  into  his  forehead, 
while  his  cheeks'  downstrokes,  and  his  sulky  mouth,  seemed 
to  be  saying :  "  I  don't  care  who  you  are  nor  what  you  are, 
I  shall  have  my  own  way." 

Mrs.  Morel  knew  him  too  well  to  look  at  him.     As  she 


34  Sons  and  Lovers 

unfastened  her  brooch  at  the  mirror,  she  smiled  faintly  to 
see  her  face  all  smeared  with  the  yellow  dust  of  lilies.  She 
brushed  it  off,  and  at  last  lay  down.  For  some  time  her 
mind  continued  snapping  and  jetting  sparks,  but  she  was 
asleep  before  her  husband  awoke  from  the  first  sleep  of  his 
drunkenness. 


CHAPTER    II 

THE    BIRTH    OF    PAUL,    AND    ANOTHER    BATTLE 

AFTER  such  a  scene  as  the  last,  Walter  Morel  was  for 
some  days  abashed  and  ashamed,  but  he  soon  re- 
gained his  old  bullying  indifference.  Yet  there  was  a 
slight  shrinking,  a  diminishing  in  his  assurance.  Phys- 
ically even,  he  shrank,  and  his  fine  full  presence  waned. 
He  never  grew  in  the  least  stout,  so  that,  as  he  sank  from 
his  erect,  assertive  bearing,  his  physique  seemed  to  con- 
tract along  with  his  pride  and  moral  strength. 

But  now  he  realized  how  hard  it  was  for  his  wife  to 
drag  about  at  her  work,  and,  his  sympathy  quickened  by 
penitence,  hastened  forward  with  his  help.  He  came 
straight  home  from  the  pit,  and  stayed  in  at  evening  till 
Friday,  and  then"  he  could  not  remain  at  home.  But  he 
was  back  again  by  ten  o'clock,  almost  quite  sober. 

He  always  made  his  own  breakfast.  Being  a  man  who 
rose  early  and  had  plenty  of  time  he  did  not,  as  some 
miners  do,  drag  his  wife  out  of  bed  at  six  o'clock.  At 
five,  sometimes  earlier,  he  woke,  got  straight  out  of  bed, 
and  went  downstairs.  When  she  could  not  sleep,  his  wife 
lay  waiting  for  this  time,  as  for  a  period  of  peace.  The 
only  real  rest  seemed  to  be  when  he  was  out  of  the  house. 

He  went  downstairs  in  his  shirt  and  then  struggled  into 
his  pit-trousers,  which  were  left  on  the  hearth  to  warm  all 
night.  There  was  always  a  fire,  because  Mrs.  Morel  raked. 
And  the  first  sound  in  the  house  was  the  bang,  bang  of 
the  poker  against  the  raker,  as  Morel  smashed  the  re- 
mainder of  the  coal  to  make  the  kettle,  which  was  filled 
and  left  on  the  hob,  finally  boil.  His  cup  and  knife  and 
fork,  all  he  wanted  except  just  the  food,  was  laid  ready 
on  the  table  on  a  newspaper.  Then  he  got  his  breakfast, 


36  Sons  and  Lovers 

made  the  tea,  packed  the  bottom  of  the  doors  with  rugs 
to  shut  out  the  draught,  piled  a  big  fire,  and  sat  down  to 
an  hour  of  joy.  He  toasted  his  bacon  on  a  fork  and 
caught  the  drops  of  fat  on  his  bread;  then  he  put  the 
rasher  on  his  thick  slice  of  bread,  and  cut  off  chunks  with 
a  clasp-knife,  poured  his  tea  into  his  saucer,  and  was 
happy.  With  his  family  about,  meals  were  never  so 
pleasant.  He  loathed  a  fork ;  it  is  a  modern  introduction 
which  has  still  scarcely  reached  common  people.  What 
Morel  preferred  was  a  clasp-knife.  Then,  in  solitude,  he 
ate  and  drank,  often  sitting,  in  cold  weather,  on  a  little 
stool  with  his  back  to  the  warm  chimney-piece,  his  food 
on  the  fender,  his  cup  on  the  hearth.  And  then  he  read 
the  last  night's  newspaper  —  what  of  it  he  could  —  spell- 
ing it  over  laboriously.  He  preferred  to  keep  the  blinds 
down  and  the  candle  lit  even  when  it  was  daylight ;  it  was 
the  habit  of  the  mine. 

At  a  quarter  to  six  he  rose,  cut  two  thick  slices  of  bread- 
and-butter,  and  put  them  in  the  white  calico  snap-bag.  He 
filled  his  tin  bottle  with  tea.  Cold  tea  without  milk  or 
sugar  was  the  drink  he  preferred  for  the  pit.  Then  he 
pulled  off  his  shirt,  and  put  on  his  pit-singlet,  a  vest  of 
thick  flannel  cut  low  round  the  neck,  and  with  short  sleeves 
like  a  chemise. 

Then  he  went  upstairs  to  his  wife  with  a  cup  of  tea 
because  slie  was  ill,  and  because  it  occurred  to  him. 

"  I  've  brought  thee  a  cup  o'  tea,  lass,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  you  need  n't,  for  you  know  I  don't  like  it,"  she 
replied. 

"  Drink  it  up ;   it  '11  pop  thee  off  to  sleep  again." 

She  accepted  the  tea.  It  pleased  him  to  see  her  take  it 
and  sip  it. 

"  I  '11  back  my  life  there  's  no  sugar  in,"  she  said. 

"  Yi  —  there  's  one  big  un,"  he  replied,  injured. 

"  It  's  a  wonder,"  she  said,  sipping  again. 

She  had  a  winsome  face  when  her  hair  was  loose.  He 
loved  her  to  grumble  at  him  in  this  manner.  He  looked  at 
her  again,  and  went,  without  any  sort  of  leave-taking.  He 


Birth  of  Paul,  and  Another  Battle      37 

never  took  more  than  two  slices  of  bread-and-butter  to  eat 
in  the  pit,  so  an  apple  or  an  orange  was  a  treat  to  him. 
He  always  liked  it  when  she  put  one  out  for  him.  He  tied 
a  scarf  round  his  neck,  put  on  his  great,  heavy  boots,  his 
coat,  with  the  big  pocket,  that  carried  his  snap-bag  and 
his  bottle  of  tea,  and  went  forth  into  the  fresh  morning 
air,  closing,  without  locking,  the  door  behind  him.  He 
loved  the  early  morning,  and  the  walk  across  the  fields. 
So  he  appeared  at  the  pit-top,  often  with  a  stalk  from 
the  hedge  between  his  teeth,  which  he  chewed  all  day  to 
keep  his  mouth  moist,  down  the  mine,  feeling  quite  as 
happy  as  when  he  was  in  the  field. 

Later,  when  the  time  for  the  baby  grew  nearer,  he  would 
bustle  round  in  his  slovenly  fashion,  poking  out  the  ashes, 
rubbing  the  fireplace,  sweeping  the  house  before  he  went 
to  work.  Then,  feeling  very  self-righteous,  he  went  up- 
stairs. 

"  Now  I  'm  cleaned  up  for  thee ;  tha  's  no  'casions  ter 
stir  a  peg  all  day,  but  sit  and  read  thy  books." 

Which  made  her  laugh,  in  spite  of  her  indignation. 

"  And  the  dinner  cooks  itself?  "  she  answered. 

"  Eh,  I  know  nowt  about  th'  dinner." 

"  You  'd  know  if  there  were  n't  any." 

"  Ay,  'appen  so,"  he  answered,  departing. 

When  she  got  downstairs,  she  would  find  the  house  tidy, 
but  dirty.  She  could  not  rest  until  she  had  thoroughly 
cleaned;  so  she  went  down  to  the  ash-pit  with  her  dust- 
pan. Mrs.  Kirk,  spying  her,  would  contrive  to  have  to 
go  to  her  own  coal-place  at  that  minute.  Then,  across  the 
wooden  fence,  she  would  call: 

"  So  you  keep  wagging  on,  then?  " 

"  Ay,"  answered  Mrs.  Morel  deprecatingly.  "  There  's 
nothing  else  for  it." 

"  Have  you  seen  Hose?  "  called  a  very  small  woman 
from  across  the  road.  It  was  Mrs.  Anthony,  a  black- 
haired,  strange  little  body,  who  always  wore  a  brown 
velvet  dress,  tight-fitting. 

"  I  have  n't,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 


38  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Eh,  I  wish  he  'd  come.  I  've  got  a  copperful  of  clothes, 
an'  I  'm  sure  I  heered  his  bell." 

"Hark!    He 's  at  the  end." 

The  two  women  looked  down  the  alley.  At  the  end  of 
the  Bottoms  a  man  stood  in  a  sort  of  old-fashioned  trap, 
bending  over  bundles  of  cream-coloured  stuff;  while  a 
cluster  of  women  held  up  their  arms  to  him,  some  with 
bundles.  Mrs.  Anthony  herself  had  a  heap  of  creamy, 
undyed  stockings  hanging  over  her  arm. 

"  I  've  done  ten  dozen  this  week,"  she  said  proudly  to 
Mrs.  Morel. 

"  T-t-t !  "  went  the  other.  "  I  don't  know  how  you  can 
find  time." 

"  Eh !  "  said  Mrs.  Anthony.  "  You  can  find  time  if  you 
make  time." 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  do  it,"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "  And 
how  much  shall  you  get  for  those  many?  " 

"  Tuppence-ha'penny  a  dozen,"  replied  the  other. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "  I  'd  starve  before  I  'd  sit 
down  and  seam  twenty-four  stockings  for  twopence  ha'- 
penny." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Anthony.  "  You  can 
rip  along  with  'em." 

Hose  was  coming  along,  ringing  his  bell.  Women  were 
waiting  at  the  yard-ends  with  their  seamed  stockings 
hanging  over  their  arms.  The  man,  a  common  fellow, 
made  jokes  with  them,  tried  to  swindle  them,  and  bullied 
them.  Mrs.  Morel  went  up  her  yard  disdainfully. 

It  was  an  understood  thing  that  if  one  woman  wanted 
her  neighbour,  she  should  put  the  poker  in  the  fire  and 
bang  at  the  back  of  the  fireplace,  which,  as  the  fires  were 
back  to  back,  would  make  a  great  noise  in  the  adjoining 
house.  One  morning  Mrs.  Kirk,  mixing  a  pudding,  nearly 
started  out  of  her  skin  as  she  heard  the  thud,  thud,  in 
her  grate.  With  her  hands  all  floury,  she  rushed  to  the 
fence. 

"  Did  you  knock,  Mrs.  Morel?  " 

"  If  you  would  n't  mind,  Mrs.  Kirk." 


Birth  of  Paul,  and  Another  Battle      39 

Mrs.  Kirk  climbed  on  to  her  copper,  got  over  the  wall 
on  to  Mrs.  Morel's  copper,  and  ran  in  to  her  neighbour. 

"  Eh,  dear,  how  are  you  feeling?  "  she  cried  in  concern. 

"  You  might  fetch  Mrs.  Bower,"  said  Mrs.  Morel, 

Mrs.  Kirk  went  into  the  yard,  lifted  up  her  strong,  shrill 
voice,  and  called: 

"  Ag-gie  —  Ag-gie !  " 

The  sound  was  heard  from  one  end  of  the  Bottoms  to 
the  other.  At  last  Aggie  came  running  up,  and  was  sent 
for  Mrs.  Bower,  whilst  Mrs.  Kirk  left  her  pudding  and 
stayed  with  her  neighbour. 

Mrs.  Morel  went  to  bed.  Mrs.  Kirk  had  Annie  and 
William  for  dinner.  Mrs.  Bower,  fat  and  waddling,  bossed 
the  house. 

"  Hash  some  cold  meat  up  for  the  master's  dinner,  and 
make  him  an  apple-charlotte  pudding,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  He  may  go  without  pudding  this  day,"  said  Mrs. 
Bower. 

Morel  was  not  as  a  rule  one  of  the  first  to  appear  at 
the  bottom  of  the  pit,  ready  to  come  up.  Some  men  were 
there  before  four  o'clock,  when  the  whistle  blew  loose-all; 
but  Morel,  whose  stall,  a  poor  one,  was  at  this  time  about 
a  mile  and  a  half  away  from  the  bottom,  worked  usually 
till  the  first  mate  stopped,  then  he  finished  also.  This  day, 
however,  the  miner  was  sick  of  the  work.  At  two  o'clock 
he  looked  at  his  watch,  by  the  light  of  the  green  candle 
—  he  was  in  a  safe  working  —  and  again  at  half-past  two. 
He  was  hewing  at  a  piece  of  rock  that  was  in  the  way 
for  the  next  day's  work.  As  he  sat  on  his  heels,  or 
kneeled,  giving  hard  blows  with  his  pick,  "  Uszza  — 
uszza !  "  he  went. 

"Shall  ter  finish,  Sorry?"1  cried  Barker,  his  fellow 
butty. 

"  Finish  ?  Niver  while  the  world  stands !  "  growled 
Morel.  And  he  went  on  striking.  He  was  tired. 

"It's  a  heart-breaking  job,"  said  Barker. 

1  "  Sorry  "  is  a  common  form  of  address.  It  is,  perhaps,  a  corruption 
of  "  sirrah." 


40  Sons  and  Lovers 

But  Morel  was  too  exasperated,  at  the  end  of  his 
tether,  to  answer.  Still  he  struck  and  hacked  with  all  his 
might. 

"  Tha  might  as  well  leave  it,  Walter,"  said  Barker. 
"  It  '11  do  to-morrow,  without  thee  hackin'  thy  guts  out." 

"  I  '11  lay  no  b finger  on  this  to-morrow,  Isr'el !  " 

cried  Morel. 

"  Oh,  well,  if  tha'  wunna,  someb'dy  else  '11  ha'e  to,"  said 
Israel. 

Then  Morel  continued  to  strike. 

"  Hey-up  there  —  loose-a'!  "  cried  the  men,  leaving  the 
next  stall. 

Morel  continued  to  strike. 

"  Tha  '11  happen  catch  me  up,"  said  Barker,  departing. 

When  he  had  gone,  Morel,  left  alone,  felt  savage.  He 
had  not  finished  his  job.  He  had  overworked  himself  into 
a  frenzy.  Rising,  wet  with  sweat,  he  threw  his  tool  down, 
pulled  on  his  coat,  blew  out  his  candle,  took  his  lamp,  and 
went.  Down  the  main  road  the  lights  of  the  other  men 
went  swinging.  There  was  a  hollow  sound  of  many  voices. 
It  was  a  long,  heavy  tramp  underground. 

He  sat  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit,  where  the  great  drops 
of  water  fell  plash.  Many  colliers  were  waiting  their  turns 
to  go  up,  talking  noisily.  Morel  gave  his  answers  short 
and  disagreeable. 

"  It 's  rainin',  Sorry,"  said  old  Giles,  who  had  had  the 
news  from  the  top. 

Morel  found  one  comfort.  He  had  his  old  umbrella, 
which  he  loved,  in  the  lamp  cabin.  At  last  he  took  his 
stand  on  the  chair,  and  was  at  the  top  in  a  moment. 
Then  he  handed  in  his  lamp  and  got  his  umbrella,  which 
he  had  bought  at  an  auction  for  one-and-six.  He  stood 
on  the  edge  of  the  pit-bank  for  a  moment,  looking  out 
over  the  fields;  grey  rain  was  falling.  The  trucks  stood 
full  of  wet,  bright  coal.  Water  ran  down  the  sides  of  the 
waggons,  over  the  white  "  C.  W.  and  Co."  Colliers,  walk- 
ing indifferent  to  the  rain,  were  streaming  down  the  line 
and  up  the  field,  a  grey,  dismal  host.  Morel  put  up  his 


Birth  of  Paul,  and  Another  Battle       41 

umbrella,  and  took  pleasure  from  the  peppering  of  the 
drops  thereon. 

All  along  the  road  to  Bestwood  the  miners  tramped, 
wet  and  grey  and  dirty,  but  their  red  mouths  talking  with 
animation.  Morel  also  walked  with  the  gang,  but  he  said 
nothing.  He  frowned  peevishly  as  he  went.  Many  men 
passed  into  the  Prince  of  Wales  or  into  Ellen's.  Morel, 
feeling  sufficiently  disagreeable  to  resist  temptation, 
trudged  along  under  the  dripping  trees  that  overhung 
the  park  wall,  and  down  the  mud  of  Greenhill  Lane. 

Mrs.  Morel  lay  in  bed,  listening  to  the  rain,  and  the 
feet  of  the  colliers  from  Minton,  their  voices,  and  the 
bang,  bang  of  the  gates  as  they  went  through  the  stile 
up  the  field. 

"  There  's  some  herb  beer  behind  the  pantry-door,"  she 
said.  "  Th'  master  '11  want  a  drink,  if  he  does  n't  stop." 

But  he  was  late,  so  she  concluded  he  had  called  for  a 
drink,  since  it  was  raining.  What  did  he  care  about  the 
child  or  her? 

She  was  very  ill  when  her  children  were  born. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked,  feeling  sick  to  death. 

"  A  boy." 

And  she  took  consolation  in  that.  The  thought  of  be- 
ing the  mother  of  men  was  warming  to  her  heart.  She 
looked  at  the  child.  It  had  blue  eyes,  and  a  lot  of  fair 
hair,  and  was  bonny.  Her  love  came  up  hot,  in  spite  of 
everything.  She  had  it  in  bed  with  her. 

Morel,  thinking  nothing,  dragged  his  way  up  the  garden 
path,  wearily  and  angrily.  He  closed  his  umbrella,  and 
stood  it  in  the  sink;  then  he  sluthered  his  heavy  boots 
into  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Bower  appeared  in  the  inner  door- 
way. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  she  's  about  as  bad  as  she  can  be. 
It 's  a  boy  childt." 

The  miner  grunted,  put  his  empty  snap-bag  and  his  tin 
bottle  on  the  dresser,  went  back  into  the  scullery  and 
hung  up  his  coat,  then  came  and  dropped  into  his  chair. 

*'  Han  yer  got  a  drink?  "  he  asked. 


42  Sons  and  Lovers 

The  woman  went  into  the  pantry.  There  was  heard 
the  pop  of  a  cork.  She  set  the  mug,  with  a  little,  dis- 
gusted rap,  on  the  table  before  Morel.  He  drank,  gasped, 
wiped  his  big  moustache  on  the  end  of  his  scarf,  drank, 
gasped,  and  lay  back  in  his  chair.  The  woman  would  not 
speak  to  him  again.  She  set  his  dinner  before  him,  and 
went  upstairs. 

"  Was  that  the  master?  "  asked  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  I  've  gave  him  his  dinner,"  replied  Mrs.  Bower. 

After  he  had  sat  with  his  arms  on  the  table  —  he  re- 
sented the  fact  that  Mrs.  Bower  put  no  cloth  on  for  him, 
and  gave  him  a  little  plate,  instead  of  a  full-sized  dinner- 
plate  —  he  began  to  eat.  The  fact  that  his  wife  was  ill, 
that  he  had  another  boy,  was  nothing  to  him  at  that 
moment.  He  was  too  tired;  he  wanted  his  dinner;  he 
wanted  to  sit  with  his  arms  lying  on  the  board;  he  did 
not  like  having  Mrs.  Bower  about.  The  fire  was  too  small 
to  please  him. 

After  he  had  finished  his  meal,  he  sat  for  twenty  min- 
utes; then  he  stoked  up  a  big  fire.  Then,  in  his  stock- 
inged feet,  he  went  reluctantly  upstairs.  It  was  a  strug- 
gle to  face  his  wife  at  this  moment,  and  he  was  tired. 
His  face  was  black,  and  smeared  with  sweat.  His  singlet 
had  dried  again,  soaking  the  dirt  in.  He  had  a  dirty  wool- 
len scarf  round  his  throat.  So  he  stood  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed. 

"  Well,  how  are  ter,  then  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  s'll  be  all  right,"  she  answered. 

"H'm!" 

He  stood  at  a  loss  what  to  say  next.  He  was  tired,  and 
this  bother  was  rather  a  nuisance  to  him,  and  he  did  n't 
quite  know  where  he  was. 

"  A  lad,  tha'  says,"  he  stammered. 

She  turned  down  the  sheet  and  showed  the  child. 

"  Bless  him !  "  he  murmured.  Which  made  her  laugh, 
because  he  blessed  by  rote  —  pretending  paternal  emotion, 
which  he  did  not  feel  just  then. 

"  Go  now,"  she  said. 


Birth  of  Paul,  and  Another  Battle      43 

"  I  will,  my  lass,"  he  answered,  turning  away. 

Dismissed,  he  wanted  to  kiss  her,  but  he  dared  nob. 
She  half  wanted  him  to  kiss  her,  but  could  not  bring  herself 
to  give  any  sign.  She  only  breathed  freely  when  he  was 
gone  out  of  the  room  again,  leaving  behind  him  a  faint 
smell  of  pit-dirt. 

Mrs.  Morel  had  a  visit  every  day  from  the  Congre- 
gational clergyman.  Mr.  Heaton  was  young,  and  very 
poor.  His  wife  had  died  at  the  birth  of  his  first  baby, 
so  he  remained  alone  in  the  manse.  He  was  a  Bachelor 
of  Arts  of  Cambridge,  very  shy,  and  no  preacher.  Mrs. 
Morel  was  fond  of  him,  and  he  depended  on  her.  For 
hours  he  talked  to  her,  when  she  was  well.  He  became 
the  god-parent  of  the  child. 

Occasionally  the  minister  stayed  to  tea  with  Mrs.  Morel. 
Then  she  laid  the  cloth  early,  got  out  her  best  cups,  with 
a  little  green  rim,  and  hoped  Morel  would  not  come  too 
soon ;  indeed,  if  he  stayed  for  a  pint,  she  would  not  mind 
this  day.  She  had  always  two  dinners  to  cook,  because 
she  believed  children  should  have  their  chief  meal  at  mid- 
day, whereas  Morel  needed  his  at  five  o'clock.  So  Mr. 
Heaton  would  hold  the  baby,  whilst  Mrs.  Morel  beat  up 
a  batter-pudding  or  peeled  the  potatoes,  and  he,  watching 
her  all  the  time,  would  discuss  his  next  sermon.  His  ideas 
were  quaint  and  fantastic.  She  brought  him  judiciously 
to  earth.  It  was  a  discussion  of  the  wedding  at  Cana. 

"  When  He  changed  the  water  into  wine  at  Cana,"  he 
said,  "  that  is  a  symbol  that  the  ordinary  life,  even  the 
blood,  of  the  married  husband  and  wife,  which  had  be- 
fore been  uninspired,  like  water,  became  filled  with  the 
Spirit,  and  was  as  wine,  because,  when  love  enters,  the 
whole  spiritual  constitution  of  a  man  changes,  is  filled 
with  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  almost  his  form  is  altered." 

Mrs.  Morel  thought  to  herself: 

"  Yes,  poor  fellow,  his  young  wife  is  dead;  that  is  why 
he  makes  his  love  into  the  Holy  Ghost." 

They  were  halfway  down  their  first  cup  of  tea  when 
they  heard  the  sluther  of  pit-boots. 


44  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Good  gracious !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Morel,  in  spite  of 
herself. 

The  minister  looked  rather  scared.  Morel  entered.  He 
was  feeling  rather  savage.  He  nodded  a  "  How  d'  yer  do  " 
to  the  clergyman,  who  rose  to  shake  hands  with  him. 

"  Nay,"  said  Morel,  showing  his  hand,  "  look  thee  at 
it !  Tha  niver  wants  ter  shake  hands  wi'  a  hand  like  that, 
does  ter?  There 's  too  much  pick-haft  and  shovel-dirt 
on  it." 

The  minister  flushed  with  confusion,  and  sat  down  again. 
Mrs.  Morel  rose,  carried  out  the  steaming  saucepan. 
Morel  took  off  his  coat,  dragged  his  armchair  to  table,  and 
sat  down  heavily. 

"  Are  you  tired  ?  "  asked  the  clergyman. 

"Tired?  I  ham  that,"  replied  Morel.  "  You  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  be  tired,  as  /  9m  tired." 

"  No,"  replied  the  clergyman. 

"  Why,  look  yer  'ere,"  said  the  miner,  showing  the 
shoulders  of  his  singlet.  "  It 's  a  bit  dry  now,  but  it 's 
wet  as  a  clout  with  sweat  even  yet.  Feel  it." 

"  Goodness !  "  cried  Mrs.  Morel.  "  Mr.  Heaton  does  n't 
want  to  feel  your  nasty  singlet." 

The  clergyman  put  out  his  hand  gingerly. 

"  No,  perhaps  he  does  n't,"  said  Morel ;  "  but  it 's  all 
come  out  of  me,  whether  or  not.  An'  iv'ry  day  alike  my 
singlet 's  wringin'  wet.  'Ave  n't  you  got  a  drink,  Missis, 
for  a  man  when  he  comes  home  barkled  up  from  the 
pit?  " 

"  You  know  you  drank  all  the  beer,"  said  Mrs.  Morel, 
pouring  out  his  tea. 

"  An'  was  there  no  more  to  be  got?  "  Turning  to  the 
clergyman  — "  A  man  gets  that  caked  up  wi'  th'  dust, 
you  know,  —  that  clogged  up  down  a  coalmine,  he  needs 
a  drink  when  he  comes  home." 

"  I  am  sure  he  does,"  said  the  clergyman. 

"  But  it 's  ten  to  one  if  there  's  owt  for  him." 

"  There  's  water  —  and  there  's  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  Water !    It 's  not  water  as  '11  clear  his  throat." 


Birth  of  Paul,  and  Another  Battle      45 

He  poured  out  a  saucerful  of  tea,  blew  it,  and  sucked 
it  up  through  his  great  black  moustache,  sighing  after- 
wards. Then  he  poured  out  another  saucerful,  and  stood 
his  cup  on  the  table. 

"  My  cloth !  "  said  Mrs.  Morel,  putting  it  on  a  plate. 

"  A  man  as  comes  home  as  I  do  's  too  tired  to  care 
about  cloths,"  said  Morel. 

"  Pity !  "  exclaimed  his  wife,  sarcastically. 

The  room  was  full  of  the  smell  of  meat  and  vegetables 
and  pit-clothes. 

He  leaned  over  to  the  minister,  his  great  moustache 
thrust  forward,  his  mouth  very  red  in  his  black  face. 

"  Mr.  Heaton,"  he  said,  "  a  man  as  has  been  down  the 
black  hole  all  day,  dingin'  away  at  a  coal  face,  yi,  a  sight 
harder  than  that  wall  • —  " 

"  Need  n't  make  a  moan  of  it,"  put  in  Mrs.  Morel. 

She  hated  her  husband  because,  whenever  he  had  an 
audience,  he  whined  and  played  for  sympathy.  William, 
sitting  nursing  the  baby,  hated  him,  with  a  boy's  hatred 
for  false  sentiment,  and  for  the  stupid  treatment  of  his 
mother.  Annie  had  never  liked  him;  she  merely  avoided 
him. 

When  the  minister  had  gone,  Mrs.  Morel  looked  at  her 
cloth. 

"  A  fine  mess !  "  she  said. 

"  Dos't  think  I  'm  goin'  to  sit  wi'  my  arms  danglin', 
cos  tha  's  got  a  parson  for  tea  wi'  thee?  "  he  bawled. 

They  were  both  angry,  but  she  said  nothing.  The  baby 
began  to  cry,  and  Mrs.  Morel,  picking  up  a  saucepan 
from  the  hearth,  accidentally  knocked  Annie  on  the  head, 
whereupon  the  girl  began  to  whine,  and  Morel  to  shout 
at  her.  In  the  midst  of  this  pandemonium,  William  looked 
up  at  the  big  glazed  text  over  the  mantelpiece  and  read 
distinctly : 

"  God  Bless  Our  Home !  " 

Whereupon  Mrs.  Morel,  trying  to  soothe  the  baby, 
jumped  up,  rushed  at  him,  boxed  his  ears,  saying: 

"  What  are  you  putting  in  for?  " 


46  Sons  and  Lovers 

And  then  she  sat  down  and  laughed,  till  tears  ran  over 
her  cheeks,  while  William  kicked  the  stool  he  had  been 
sitting  on,  and  Morel  growled: 

"  I  canna  see  what  there  is  so  much  to  laugh  at." 

One  evening,  directly  after  the  parson's  visit,  feeling 
unable  to  bear  herself  after  another  display  from  her  hus- 
band, she  took  Annie  and  the  baby  and  went  out.  Morel 
had  kicked  William,  and  the  mother  would  never  forgive 
him. 

She  went  over  the  sheep-bridge  and  across  a  corner  of 
the  meadow  to  the  cricket-ground.  The  meadows  seemed 
one  space  of  ripe,  evening  light,  whispering  with  the  dis- 
tant mill-race.  She  sat  on  a  seat  under  the  alders  in  the 
cricket-ground,  and  fronted  the  evening.  Before  her,  level 
and  solid,  spread  the  big  green  cricket-field,  like  the  bed 
of  a  sea  of  light.  Children  played  in  the  bluish  shadow 
of  the  pavilion.  Many  rooks,  high  up,  came  cawing  home 
across  the  softly-woven  sky.  They  stooped  in  a  long 
curve  down  into  the  golden  glow,  concentrating,  cawing, 
wheeling,  like  black  flakes  on  a  slow  vortex,  over  a  tree- 
clump  that  made  a  dark  boss  among  the  pasture. 

A  few  gentlemen  were  practising,  and  Mrs.  Morel  could 
hear  the  chock  of  the  ball,  and  the  voices  of  men  suddenly 
roused ;  could  see  the  white  forms  of  men  shifting  silently 
over  the  green,  upon  which  already  the  under  shadows 
were  smouldering.  Away  at  the  grange,  one  side  of  the 
haystacks  was  lit  up,  the  other  sides  blue-grey.  A  wag- 
gon of  sheaves  rocked  small  across  the  melting  yellow 
light. 

The  sun  was  going  down.  Every  open  evening,  the  hills 
of  Derbyshire  were  blazed  over  with  red  sunset.  Mrs. 
Morel  watched  the  sun  sink  from  the  glistening  sky,  leav- 
ing a  soft  flower-blue  overhead,  while  the  western  space 
went  red,  as  if  all  the  fire  had  swum  down  there,  leaving 
the  bell  cast  flawless  blue.  The  mountain-ash  berries 
across  the  field  stood  fierily  out  from  the  dark  leaves,  for 
a  moment.  A  few  shocks  of  corn  in  a  corner  of  the  fallow 
stood  up  as  if  alive;  she  imagined  them  bowing;  perhaps 


Birth  of  Paul,  and  Another  Battle       47 

her  son  would  be  a  Joseph.  In  the  east,  a  mirrored  sun- 
set floated  pink  opposite  the  west's  scarlet.  The  big 
haystacks  on  the  hillside,  that  butted  into  the  glare,  went 
cold. 

With  Mrs.  Morel  it  was  one  of  those  still  moments  when 
the  small  frets  vanish,  and  the  beauty  of  things  stands  out, 
and  she  had  the  peace  and  the  strength  to  see  herself. 
Now  and  again,  a  swallow  cut  close  to  her.  Now  and 
again,  Annie  came  up  with  a  handful  of  alder-currants. 
The  baby  was  restless  on  his  mother's  knee,  clambering 
with  his  hands  at  the  light. 

Mrs.  Morel  looked  down  at  him.  She  had  dreaded  this 
baby  like  a  catastrophe,  because  of  her  feeling  for  her 
husband.  And  now  she  felt  strangely  towards  the  infant. 
Her  heart  was  heavy  because  of  the  child,  almost  as  if 
it  were  unhealthy,  or  malformed.  Yet  it  seemed  quite 
well.  But  she  noticed  the  peculiar  knitting  of  the  baby's 
brows,  and  the  peculiar  heaviness  of  its  eyes,  as  if  it  were 
trying  to  understand  something  that  was  pain.  She  felt, 
when  she  looked  at  the  child's  dark,  brooding  pupils,  as 
if  a  burden  were  on  her  heart. 

"  He  looks  as  if  he  was  thinking  about  something  — 
quite  sorrowful,"  said  Mrs.  Kirk. 

Suddenly,  looking  at  him,  the  heavy  feeling  at  the 
mother's  heart  melted  into  passionate  grief.  She  bowed 
over  him,  and  a  few  tears  shook  swiftly  out  of  her  very 
heart.  The  baby  lifted  his  fingers. 

"  My  lamb !  "  she  cried  softly. 

And  at  that  moment  she  felt,  in  some  far  inner  place  of 
her  soul,  that  she  and  her  husband  were  guilty. 

The  baby  was  looking  up  at  her.  It  had  blue  eyes  like 
her  own,  but  its  look  was  heavy,  steady,  as  if  it  had 
realized  something  that  had  stunned  some  point  of  its 
soul. 

In  her  arms  lay  the  delicate  baby.  Its  deep  blue  eyes, 
always  looking  up  at  her  unblinking,  seemed  to  draw  her 
innermost  thoughts  out  of  her.  She  no  longer  loved  her 
husband ;  she  had  not  wanted  this  child  to  come,  and  there 


48  Sons  and  Lovers 

it  lay  in  her  arms  and  pulled  at  her  heart.  She  felt  as 
if  the  navel  string  that  had  connected  its  frail  little  body 
with  hers  had  not  been  broken.  A  wave  of  hot  love  went 
over  her  to  the  infant.  She  held  it  close  to  her  face  and 
breast.  With  all  her  force,  with  all  her  soul  she  would 
make  up  to  it  for  having  brought  it  into  the  world  un- 
loved. She  would  love  it  all  the  more  now  it  was  here; 
carry  it  in  her  love.  Its  clear,  knowing  eyes  gave  her 
pain  and  fear.  Did  it  know  all  about  her?  When  it  lay 
under  her  heart,  had  it  been  listening  then?  Was  there 
a  reproach  in  the  look?  She  felt  the  marrow  melt  in  her 
bones,  with  fear  and  p-ain. 

Once  more  she  was  aware  of  the  sun  lying  red  on  the 
rim  of  the  hill  opposite.  She  suddenly  held  up  the  child  in 
her  hands. 

"  Look !  "  she  said.    "  Look,  my  pretty !  " 

She  thrust  the  infant  forward  to  the  crimson,  throbbing 
sun,  almost  with  relief.  She  saw  him  lift  his  little  fist. 
Then  she  put  him  to  her  bosom  again,  ashamed  almost  of 
her  impulse  to  give  him  back  again  whence  he  came. 

"  If  he  lives,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "  what  will  be- 
come of  him  —  what  will  he  be?  " 

Her  heart  was  anxious. 

"  I  will  call  him  '  Paul,'  "  she  said  suddenly ;  she  knew 
not  why. 

After  a  while  she  went  home.  A  fine  shadow  was  flung 
over  the  deep  green  meadow,  darkening  all. 

As  she  expected,  she  found  the  house  empty.  But  Morel 
was  home  by  ten  o'clock,  and  that  day,  at  least,  ended 
peacefully. 

Walter  Morel  was,  at  this  time,  exceedingly  irritable. 
His  work  seemed  to  exhaust  him.  When  he  came  home 
he  did  not  speak  civilly  to  anybody.  If  the  fire  were 
rather  low  he  bullied  about  that;  he  grumbled  about  his 
dinner;  if  the  children  made  a  chatter  he  shouted  at 
them  in  a  way  that  made  their  mother's  blood  boil,  and 
made  them  hate  him. 

On  the  Saturday,  he  was  not  home  by  eleven  o'clock. 


Birth  of  Paul,  and  Another  Battle       49 

The  baby  was  unwell,  and  was  restless,  crying  if  he  were 
put  down.  Mrs.  Morel,  tired  to  death,  and  still  weak,  was 
scarcely  under  control. 

"  I  wish  the  nuisance  would  come,"  she  said  wearily  to 
herself. 

The  child  at  last  sank  down  to  sleep  in  her  arms.  She 
was  too  tired  to  carry  him  to  the  cradle. 

"  But  I  '11  say  nothing,  whatever  time  he  comes,"  she 
said.  "  It  only  works  me  up ;  I  won't  say  anything.  But 
I  know  if  he  does  anything  it  '11  make  my  blood  boil,"  she 
added  to  herself. 

She  sighed,  hearing  him  coming,  as  if  it  were  some- 
thing she  could  not  bear.  He,  taking  his  revenge,  was 
nearly  drunk.  She  kept  her  head  bent  over  the  child  as 
he  entered,  not  wishing  to  see  him.  But  it  went  through 
her  like  a  flash  of  hot  fire  when,  in  passing,  he  lurched 
against  the  dresser,  setting  the  tins  rattling,  and  clutched 
at  the  white  pot  knobs  for  support.  He  hung  up  his  hat 
and  coat,  then  returned,  stood  glowering  from  a  distance 
at  her,  as  she  sat  bowed  over  the  child. 

"  Is  there  nothing  to  eat  in  the  house?  "  he  asked,  in- 
solently, as  if  to  a  servant.  In  certain  stages  of  his  in- 
toxication he  affected  the  clipped,  mincing  speech  of  the 
towns.  Mrs.  Morel  hated  him  most  in  this  condition. 

"  You  know  what  there  is  in  the  house,"  she  said,  so 
coldly,  it  sounded  impersonal. 

He  stood  and  glared  at  her  without  moving  a  muscle. 

"  I  asked  a  civil  question,  and  I  expect  a  civil  answer," 
he  said  affectedly. 

"  And  you  got  it,"  she  said,  still  ignoring  him. 

He  glowered  again.  Then  he  came  unsteadily  forward. 
He  leaned  on  the  table  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other 
jerked  at  the  table  drawer  to  get  a  knife  to  cut  bread. 
The  drawer  stuck  because  he  pulled  sideways.  In  a  temper 
he  dragged  it,  so  that  it  flew  out  bodily,  and  spoons,  forks, 
knives,  a  hundred  metallic  things,  splashed  with  a  clatter 
and  a  clang  upon  the  brick  floor.  The  baby  gave  a  little 
convulsed  start. 


50  Sons  and  Lovers 

"What  are  you  doing,  clumsy,  drunken  fool?"  the 
mother  cried. 

"  Then  tha  should  get  the  flamin'  thing  thysen.  Tha 
should  get  up,  like  other  women  have  to,  an'  wait  on  a 
man." 

"Wait  on  you  —  wait  on  you?"  she  cried.  "Yes,  I 
see  myself." 

"  Yis,  an'  I  '11  learn  thee  tha  's  got  to.  Wait  on  me, 
yes,  tha  sh'lt  wait  on  me  —  " 

"  Never,  milord.    I  'd  wait  on  a  dog  at  the  door  first." 

"What  — what?" 

He  was  trying  to  fit  in  the  drawer.  At  her  last  speech 
he  turned  round.  His  face  was  crimson,  his  eyes  blood- 
shot. He  stared  at  her  one  silent  second  in  threat. 

"  P-h !  "  she  went  quickly,  in  contempt. 

He  jerked  at  the  drawer  in  his  excitement.  It  fell,  cut 
sharply  on  his  shin,  and  on  the  reflex  he  flung  it  at 
her. 

One  of  the  corners  caught  her  brow  as  the  shallow 
drawer  crashed  into  the  fireplace.  She  swayed,  almost 
fell  stunned  from  her  chair.  To  her  very  soul  she  was 
sick;  she  clasped  the  child  tightly  to  her  bosom.  A  few 
moments  elapsed;  then,  with  an  effort,  she  brought  her- 
self to.  The  baby  was  crying  plaintively.  Her  left  brow 
was  bleeding  rather  profusely.  As  she  glanced  down  at 
the  child,  her  brain  reeling,  some  drops  of  blood  soaked 
into  its  white  shawl;  but  the  baby  was  at  least  not  hurt. 
She  balanced  her  head  to  keep  equilibrium,  so  that  the 
blood  ran  into  her  eye. 

Walter  Morel  remained  as  he  had  stood,  leaning  on  the 
table  with  one  hand,  looking  blank.  When  he  was  suffi- 
ciently sure  of  his  balance,  he  went  across  to  her,  swayed, 
caught  hold  of  the  back  of  her  rocking-chair,  almost  tip- 
ping her  out ;  then,  leaning  forward  over  her,  and  swaying 
as  he  spoke,  he  said,  in  tone  of  wondering  concern : 

"Did  it  catch  thee?" 

He  swayed  again,  as  if  he  would  pitch  on  to  the  child. 
With  the  catastrophe  he  had  lost  all  balance. 


Birth  of  Paul,  and  Another  Battle      51 

"  Go  away,"  she  said,  struggling  to  keep  her  presence 
of  mind. 

He  hiccoughed.  "  Let 's  —  let 's  look  at  it,"  he  said, 
hiccoughing  again. 

"  Go  away !  "  she  cried. 

"  Lemme  —  lemme  look  at  it,  lass." 

She  smelled  him  of  drink,  felt  the  unequal  pull  of  his 
swaying  grasp  on  the  back  of  her  rocking-chair. 

"  Go  away,"  she  said,  and  weakly  she  pushed  him  off. 

He  stood,  uncertain  in  balance,  gazing  upon  her.  Sum- 
moning all  her  strength  she  rose,  the  baby  on  one  arm. 
By  a  cruel  effort  of  will,  moving  as  if  in  sleep,  she  went 
across  to  the  scullery,  where  she  bathed  her  eye  for  a 
minute  in  cold  water ;  but  she  was  too  dizzy.  Afraid  lest 
she  should  swoon,  she  returned  to  her  rocking-chair,  trem- 
bling in  every  fibre.  By  instinct,  she  kept  the  baby  clasped. 

Morel,  bothered,  had  succeeded  in  pushing  the  drawer 
back  into  its  cavity,  and  was  on  his  knees,  groping,  with 
numb  paws,  for  the  scattered  spoons. 

Her  brow  was  still  bleeding.  Presently  Morel  got  up 
and  came  craning  his  neck  towards  her. 

"  What  has  it  done  to  thee,  lass?  "  he  asked,  in  a  very 
wretched,  humble  tone. 

"  You  can  see  what  it 's  done,"  she  answered. 

He  stood,  bending  forward,  supported  on  his  hands, 
which  grasped  his  legs  just  above  the  knee.  He  peered 
to  look  at  the  wound.  She  drew  away  from  the  thrust  of 
his  face  with  its  great  moustache,  averting  her  own  face 
as  much  as  possible.  As  he  looked  at  her,  who  was  cold 
and  impassive  as  stone,  with  mouth  shut  tight,  he  sick- 
ened with  feebleness  and  hopelessness  of  spirit.  He  was 
turning  drearily  away,  when  he  saw  a  drop  of  blood  fall 
from  the  averted  wound  into  the  baby's  fragile,  glistening 
hair.  Fascinated,  he  watched  the  heavy  dark  drop  hang 
in  the  glistening  cloud,  and  pull  down  the  gossamer.  An- 
other drop  fell.  It  would  soak  through  to  the  baby's 
scalp.  He  watched,  fascinated,  feeling  it  soak  in;  then, 
finally,  his  manhood  broke. 


52  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  What  of  this  child?  "  was  all  his  wife  said  to  him. 
But  her  low,  intense  tones  brought  his  head  lower.  She 
softened :  "  Get  me  some  wadding  out  of  the  middle 
drawer,"  she  said. 

He  stumbled  away  very  obediently,  presently  returning 
with  a  pad,  which  she  singed  before  the  fire,  then  put  on 
her  forehead,  as  she  sat  with  the  baby  on  her  lap. 

"  Now  that  clean  pit-scarf." 

Again  he  rummaged  and  fumbled  in  the  drawer,  re- 
turning presently  with  a  red,  narrow  scarf.  She  took 
it,  and  with  trembling  fingers  proceeded  to  bind  it  round 
her  head. 

"  Let  me  tie  it  for  thee,"  he  said  humbly. 

"  I  can  do  it  myself,"  she  replied.  When  it  was  done 
she  went  upstairs,  telling  him  to  rake  the  fire  and  lock 
the  door. 

In  the  morning  Mrs.  Morel  said: 

"  I  knocked  against  the  latch  of  the  coal-place,  when 
I  was  getting  a  raker  in  the  dark,  because  the  candle 
blew  out."  Her  two  small  children  looked  up  at  her  with 
wide,  dismayed  eyes.  They  said  nothing,  but  their  parted 
lips  seemed  to  express  the  unconscious  tragedy  they 
felt. 

Walter  Morel  lay  in  bed  next  day  until  nearly  dinner- 
time. He  did  not  think  of  the  previous  evening's  work. 
He  scarcely  thought  of  anything,  but  he  would  not  think 
of  that.  He  lay  and  suffered  like  a  sulking  dog.  He  had 
hurt  himself  most ;  and  he  was  the  more  damaged  because 
he  would  never  say  a  word  to  her,  or  express  his  sorrow. 
He  tried  to  wriggle  out  of  it.  "  It  was  her  own  fault," 
he  said  to  himself.  Nothing,  however,  could  prevent  his 
inner  consciousness  inflicting  on  him  the  punishment  which 
ate  into  his  spirit  like  rust,  and  which  he  could  only  allevi- 
ate by  drinking. 

He  felt  as  if  he  had  not  the  initiative  to  get  up,  or  to 
say  a  word,  or  to  move,  but  could  only  lie  like  a  log. 
Moreover,  he  had  himself  violent  pains  in  the  head.  It 
was  Saturday.  Towards  noon  he  rose,  cut  himself  food 


Birth  of  Paul,  and  Another  Battle       53 

in  the  pantry,  ate  it  with  his  head  dropped,  then  pulled 
on  his  boots,  and  went  out,  to  return  at  three  o'clock 
slightly  tipsy  and  relieved;  then  once  more  straight  to 
bed.  He  rose  again  at  six  in  the  evening1,  had  tea  and 
went  straight  out. 

Sunday  was  the  same :  bed  till  noon,  the  Palmerston 
Arms  till  2.30,  dinner,  and  bed ;  scarcely  a  word  spoken. 
When  Mrs.  Morel  went  upstairs,  towards  four  o'clock, 
to  put  on  her  Sunday  dress,  he  was  fast  asleep.  She 
would  have  felt  sorry  for  him,  if  he  had  once  said,  "  Wife, 
I  'm  sorry."  But  no ;  he  insisted  to  himself  it  was  her 
fault.  And  so  he  broke  himself.  So  she  merely  left  him 
alone.  There  was  this  deadlock  of  passion  between  them, 
and  she  was  stronger. 

The  family  began  tea.  Sunday  was  the  only  day  when 
all  sat  down  to  meals  together. 

"  Is  n't  my  father  going  to  get  up?  "  asked  William. 

"  Let  him  lie,"  the  mother  replied. 

There  was  a  feeling  of  misery  over  all  the  house.  The 
children  breathed  the  air  that  was  poisoned,  and  they  felt 
dreary.  They  were  rather  disconsolate,  did  not  know 
what  to  do,  what  to  play  at. 

Immediately  Morel  woke  he  got  straight  out  of  bed. 
That  was  characteristic  of  him  all  his  life.  He  was  all 
for  activity.  The  prostrated  inactivity  of  two  mornings 
was  stifling  him. 

It  was  near  six  o'clock  when  he  got  down.  This  time 
he  entered  without  hesitation,  his  wincing  sensitiveness 
having  hardened  again.  He  did  not  care  any  longer 
what  the  family  thought  or  felt. 

The  tea-things  were  on  the  table.  William  was  reading 
aloud  from  "  The  Child's  Own,"  Annie  listening  and  ask- 
ing eternally  "  Why?  "  Both  children  hushed  into  silence 
as  they  heard  the  approaching  thud  of  their  father's 
stockinged  feet,  and  shrank  as  he  entered.  Yet  he  was 
usually  indulgent  to  them. 

Morel  made  the  meal  alone,  brutally.  He  ate  and  drank 
more  noisily  than  he  had  need.  No  one  spoke  to  him. 


54  Sons  and  Lovers 

The  family  life  withdrew,  shrank  away,  and  became  hushed 
as  he  entered.  But  he  cared  no  longer  about  his  alienation. 

Immediately  he  had  finished  tea  he  rose  with  alacrity 
to  go  out.  It  was  this  alacrity,  this  haste  to  be  gone, 
which  so  sickened  Mrs.  Morel.  As  she  heard  him  sousing 
heartily  in  cold  water,  heard  the  eager  scratch  of  the 
steel  comb  on  the  side  of  the  bowl,  as  he  wetted  his  hair, 
she  closed  her  eyes  in  disgust.  As  he  bent  over,  lacing 
his  boots,  there  was  a  certain  vulgar  gusto  in  his  move- 
ment that  divided  him  from  the  reserved,  watchful  rest 
of  the  family.  He  always  ran  away  from  the  battle  with 
himself.  Even  in  his  own  heart's  privacy,  he  excused 
himself,  saying,  "  If  she  had  n't  said  so-and-so,  it  would 
never  have  happened.  She  asked  for  what  she  's  got." 
The  children  waited  in  restraint  during  his  preparations. 
When  he  had  gone,  they  sighed  with  relief. 

He  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  was  glad.  It  was 
a  rainy  evening.  The  Palmerston  would  be  the  cosier. 
He  hastened  forward  in  anticipation.  All  the  slate  roofs 
of  the  Bottoms  shone  black  with  wet.  The  roads,  always 
dark  with  coal-dust,  were  full  of  blackish  mud.  He  has- 
tened along.  The  Palmerston  windows  were  steamed  over. 
The  passage  was  paddled  with  wet  feet.  But  the  air  was 
warm,  if  foul,  and  full  of  the  sound  of  voices  and  the  smell 
of  beer  and  smoke. 

"  What  shollt  ha'e,  Walter?  "  cried  a  voice,  as  soon  as 
Morel  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"  Oh,  Jim,  my  lad,  wheriver  has  thee  sprung  frae?  " 

The  men  made  a  seat  for  him,  and  took  him  in  warmly. 
He  was  glad.  In  a  minute  or  two  they  had  thawed  all  re- 
sponsibility out  of  him,  all  shame,  all  trouble,  and  he  was 
clear  as  a  bell  for  a  jolly  night. 

On  the  Wednesday  following,  Morel  was  penniless.  He 
dreaded  his  wife.  Having  hurt  her,  he  hated  her.  He  did 
not  know  what  to  do  with  himself  that  evening,  having 
not  even  twopence  with  which  to  go  to  the  Palmerston, 
and  being  already  rather  deeply  in  debt.  So,  while  his 
wife  was  down  the  garden  with  the  child,  he  hunted  in  the 


Birth  of  Paul,  and  Another  Battle      55 

top  drawer  of  the  dresser  where  she  kept  her  purse,  found 
it,  and  looked  inside.  It  contained  a  half-crown,  two  half- 
pennies, and  a  sixpence.  So  he  took  the  sixpence,  put  the 
purse  carefully  back,  and  went  out. 

The  next  day,  when  she  wanted  to  pay  the  greengrocer, 
she  looked  in  the  purse  for  her  sixpence,  and  her  heart  sank 
to  her  shoes.  Then  she  sat  down  and  thought :  "  Was  there 
a  sixpence  ?  I  had  n't  spent  it,  had  I  ?  And  I  had  n't  left 
it  anywhere  else?  " 

She  was  much  put  about.  She  hunted  round  every- 
where for  it.  And,  as  she  thought,  the  conviction  came 
into  her  heart  that  her  husband  had  taken  it.  What  she 
had  in  her  purse  was  all  the  money  she  possessed.  But 
that  he  should  sneak  it  from  her  thus  was  unbearable.  He 
had  done  so  twice  before.  The  first  time  she  had  not  ac- 
cused him,  and  at  the  week-end  he  had  put  the  shilling 
again  into  her  purse.  So  that  was  how  she  had  known 
he  had  taken  it.  The  second  time  he  had  not  paid  back. 

This  time  she  felt  it  was  too  much.  When  he  had  had 
his  dinner  —  he  came  home  early  that  day  —  she  said  to 
him  coldly: 

"  Did  you  take  sixpence  out  of  my  purse  last  night?  " 

"  Me !  "  he  said,  looking  up  in  an  offended  way.  "  No, 
I  didna !  I  niver  clapped  eyes  on  your  purse." 

But  she  could  detect  the  lie. 

"  Why,  you  know  you  did,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  I  tell  you  I  didna,"  he  shouted.  "  Yer  at  me  again, 
are  yer?  I  've  had  about  enough  on  't." 

"  So  you  filch  sixpence  out  of  my  purse  while  I  'm  taking 
the  clothes  in." 

"  I  '11  may  yer  pay  for  this,"  he  said,  pushing  back  his 
chair  in  desperation.  He  bustled  and  got  washed,  then 
went  determinedly  upstairs.  Presently  he  came  down 
dressed,  and  with  a  big  bundle  in  a  blue-checked,  enormous 
handkerchief. 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  "  you  '11  see  me  again  when  you 
do." 

"  It  '11  be  before  I  want  to,"  she  replied ;    and  at  that 


56  Sons  and  Lovers 

he  marched  out  of  the  house  with  his  bundle.  She  sat 
trembling  slightly,  but  her  heart  brimming  with  contempt. 
What  would  she  do  if  he  went  to  some  other  pit,  obtained 
work,  and  got  in  with  another  woman?  But  she  knew  him 
too  well  —  he  could  n't.  She  was  dead  sure  of  him. 
Nevertheless  her  heart  was  gnawed  inside  her. 

"  Where  's  my  dad?  "  said  William,  coming  in  from 
school. 

"  He  says  he  's  run  away,"  replied  the  mother. 

"Where  to?" 

"  Eh,  I  don't  know.  He  's  taken  a  bundle  in  the  blue 
handkerchief,  and  says  he  's  not  coming  back." 

"  What  shall  we  do?  "  cried  the  boy. 

"  Eh,  never  trouble,  he  won't  go  far." 

"  But  if  he  does  n't  come  back,"  wailed  Annie. 

And  she  and  William  retired  to  the  sofa  and  wept. 
Mrs.  Morel  sat  and  laughed. 

"  You  pair  of  gabeys !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  You  '11  see 
him  before  the  night  's  out." 

But  the  children  were  not  to  be  consoled.  Twilight 
came  on.  Mrs.  Morel  grew  anxious  from  very  weariness. 
One  part  of  her  said,  it  would  be  a  relief  to  see  the  last 
of  him ;  another  part  fretted  because  of  keeping  the  chil- 
dren; and  inside  her,  as  yet,  she  could  not  quite  let  him 
go.  At  the  bottom,  she  knew  very  well  he  could  not  go. 

When  she  went  down  to  the  coal-place  at  the  end  of 
the  garden,  however,  she  felt  something  behind  the  door. 
So  she  looked.  And  there  in  the  dark  lay  the  big  blue 
bundle.  She  sat  on  a  piece  of  coal  in  front  of  the  bundle 
and  laughed.  Every  time  she  saw  it,  so  fat  and  yet  so 
ignominious,  slunk  into  its  corner  in  the  dark,  with  its 
ends  flopping  like  dejected  ears  from  the  knots,  she 
laughed  again.  She  was  relieved. 

Mrs.  Morel  sat  waiting.  He  had  not  any  money,  she 
knew,  so  if  he  stopped  he  was  running  up  a  bill.  She  was 
very  tired  of  him  —  tired  to  death.  He  had  not  even  the 
courage  to  carry  his  bundle  beyond  the  yard-end. 

As  she  meditated,  at  about  nine  o'clock,  he  opened  the 


Birth  of  Paul,  and  Another  Battle       57 

door  and  came  in,  slinking,  and  yet  sulky.  She  said  not 
a  word.  He  took  off  his  coat,  and  slunk  to  his  armchair, 
where  he  began  to  take  off  his  boots. 

"  You  'd  better  fetch  your  bundle  before  you  take  your 
boots  off,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  You  may  thank  your  stars  I  've  come  back  to-night," 
he  said,  looking  up  from  under  his  dropped  head,  sulkily, 
trying  to  be  impressive. 

"  Why,  where  should  you  have  gone  ?  You  dare  n't 
even  get  your  parcel  through  the  yard-end,"  she  said. 

He  looked  such  a  fool  she  was  not  even  angry  with  him. 
He  continued  to  take  his  boots  off  and  prepare  for  bed. 

"  I  don't  know  what  's  in  your  blue  handkerchief,"  she 
said.  "  But  if  you  leave  it  the  children  shall  fetch  it  in 
the  morning." 

Whereupon  he  got  up  and  went  out  of  the  house,  re- 
turning presently  and  crossing  the  kitchen  with  averted 
face,  hurrying  upstairs.  As  Mrs.  Morel  saw  him  slink 
quickly  through  the  inner  doorway,  holding  his  bundle, 
she  laughed  to  herself;  but  her  heart  was  bitter,  because 
she  had  loved  him. 


CHAPTER    III 

THE  CASTING  OFF  OF  MOREL THE  TAKING  ON  OF  WILLIAM 

DURING  the  next  week  Morel's  temper  was  almost  un- 
bearable. Like  all  miners,  he  was  a  great  lover  of 
medicines,  which,  strangely  enough,  he  would  often  pay 
for  himself. 

"  You  mun  get  me  a  drop  o'  laxy  vitral,"  he  said.  "  It 's 
a  winder  as  we  canna  ha'e  a  sup  i'  th'  'ouse." 

So  Mrs.  Morel  bought  him  elixir  of  vitriol,  his  favourite 
first  medicine.  And  he  made  himself  a  jug  of  wormwood 
tea.  He  had  hanging  in  the  attic  great  bunches  of  dried 
herbs :  wormwood,  rue,  horehound,  elder-flowers,  parsley- 
purt,  marshmallow,  hyssop,  dandelion,  and  centuary. 
Usually  there  was  a  jug  of  one  or  other  decoction  stand- 
ing on  the  hob,  from  which  he  drank  largely. 

"  Grand !  "  he  said,  smacking  his  lips  after  wormwood. 
"  Grand !  "  And  he  exhorted  the  children  to  try. 

"  It 's  better  than  any  of  your  tea  or  your  cocoa  stews," 
he  vowed.  But  they  were  not  to  be  tempted. 

This  time,  however,  neither  pills  nor  vitriol  nor  all  his 
herbs  would  shift  the  "  nasty  peens  in  his  head."  He  was 
sickening  for  an  attack  of  an  inflammation  of  the  brain. 
He  had  never  been  well  since  his  sleeping  on  the  ground 
when  he  went  with  Jerry  to  Nottingham.  Since  then  he 
had  drunk  and  stormed.  Now  he  fell  seriously  ill,  and 
Mrs.  Morel  had  him  to  nurse.  He  was  one  of  the  worst 
patients  imaginable.  But,  in  spite  of  all,  and  putting 
aside  the  fact  that  he  was  bread-winner,  she  never  quite 
wanted  him  to  die.  Still  there  was  one  part  of  her  wanted 
him  for  herself. 

The  neighbours  were  very  good  to  her:  occasionally 
some  had  the  children  in  to  meals,  occasionally  some  would 


Casting  off  of  Morel  59 

do  the  downstairs  work  for  her,  one  would  mind  the  baby 
for  a  day.  But  it  was  a  great  drag,  nevertheless.  It  was 
not  every  day  the  neighbours  helped.  Then  she  had  nurs- 
ing of  baby  and  husband,  cleaning  and  cooking,  every- 
thing to  do.  She  was  quite  worn  out,  but  she  did  what 
was  wanted  of  her. 

And  the  money  was  just  sufficient.  She  had  seventeen 
shillings  a  week  from  clubs,  and  every  Friday  Barker  and 
the  other  butty  put  by  a  portion  of  the  stall's  profits  for 
Morel's  wife.  And  the  neighbours  made  broths,  and  gave 
eggs,  and  such  invalids'  trifles.  If  they  had  not  helped 
her  so  generously  in  those  times,  Mrs.  Morel  would  never 
have  pulled  through,  without  incurring  debts  that  would 
have  dragged  her  down. 

The  weeks  passed.  Morel,  almost  against  hope,  grew 
better.  He  had  a  fine  constitution,  so  that,  once  on  the 
mend,  he  went  straight  forward  to  recovery.  Soon  he  was 
pottering  about  downstairs.  During  his  illness  his  wife 
had  spoilt  him  a  little.  Now  he  wanted  her  to  continue. 
He  often  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  pulled  down  the  cor- 
ners of  his  mouth,  and  shammed  pains  he  did  not  feel. 
But  there  was  no  deceiving  her.  At  first  she  merely 
smiled  to  herself.  Then  she  scolded  him  sharply. 

"  Goodness,  man,  don't  be  so  lachrymose." 

That  wounded  him  slightly,  but  still  he  continued  to 
feign  sickness. 

"  I  would  n't  be  such  a  mardy  baby,"  said  his  wife 
shortly. 

Then  he  was  indignant,  and  cursed  under  his  breath, 
like  a  boy.  He  was  forced  to  resume  a  normal  tone,  and 
to  cease  to  whine. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  a  state  of  peace  in  the  house  for 
some  time.  Mrs.  Morel  was  more  tolerant  of  him,  and  he, 
depending  on  her  almost  like  a  child,  was  rather  happy. 
Neither  knew  that  she  was  more  tolerant  because  she 
loved  him  less.  Up  till  this  time,  in  spite  of  all,  he  had 
been  her  husband  and  her  man.  She  had  felt  that,  more 
or  less,  what  he  did  to  himself  he  did  to  her.  Her  living 


60  Sons  and  Lovers 

depended  on  him.  There  were  many,  many  stages  in  the 
ebbing  of  her  love  for  him,  but  it  was  always  ebbing. 

Now,  with  the  birth  of  this  third  baby,  her  self  no 
longer  set  towards  him,  helplessly,  but  was  like  a  tide 
that  scarcely  rose,  standing  off  from  him.  After  this  she 
scarcely  desired  him.  And,  standing  more  aloof  from 
him,  not  feeling  him  so  much  part  of  herself,  but  merely 
part  of  her  circumstances,  she  did  not  mind  so  much  what 
he  did,  could  leave  him  alone. 

There  was  the  halt,  the  wistfulness  about  the  ensuing 
year,  which  is  like  autumn  in  a  man's  life.  His  wife  was 
casting  him  off,  half  regretfully,  but  relentlessly ;  casting 
him  off  and  turning  now  for  love  and  life  to  the  children. 
Henceforward  he  was  more  or  less  a  husk.  And  he  half 
acquiesced,  as  so  many  men  do,  yielding  their  place  to 
their  children. 

During  his  recuperation,  when  it  was  really  over  be- 
tween them,  both  made  an  effort  to  come  back  somewhat 
to  the  old  relationship  of  the  first  months  of  their  mar- 
riage. He  sat  at  home  and,  when  the  children  were  in 
bed,  and  she  was  sewing  —  she  did  all  her  sewing  by  hand, 
made  all  shirts  and  children's  clothing  —  he  would  read 
to  her  from  the  newspaper,  slowly  pronouncing  and  de- 
livering the  words  like  a  man  pitching  quoits.  Often  she 
hurried  him  on,  giving  him  a  phrase  in  anticipation.  And 
then  he  took  her  words  humbly. 

The  silences  between  them  were  peculiar.  There  would 
be  the  swift,  slight  "  cluck  "  of  her  needle,  the  sharp 
"  pop  "  of  his  lips  as  he  let  out  the  smoke,  the  warmth, 
the  sizzle  on  the  bars  as  he  spat  in  the  fire.  Then  her 
thoughts  turned  to  William.  Already  he  was  getting  a  big 
boy.  Already  he  was  top  of  the  class,  and  the  master 
said  he  was  the  smartest  lad  in  the  school.  She  saw  him 
a  man,  young,  full  of  vigour,  making  the  world  glow 
again  for  her. 

And  Morel  sitting  there,  quite  alone,  and  having  noth- 
ing to  think  about,  would  be  feeling  vaguely  uncom- 
fortable. His  soul  would  reach  out  in  its  blind  way  to 


Casting  off  of  Morel  61 

her  and  find  her  gone.  He  felt  a  sort  of  emptiness,  almost 
like  a  vacuum  in  his  soul.  He  was  unsettled  and  restless. 
Soon  he  could  not  live  in  that  atmosphere,  and  he  affected 
his  wife.  Both  felt  an  oppression  on  their  breathing  when 
they  were  left  together  for  some  time.  Then  he  went  to 
bed  and  she  settled  down  to  enjoy  herself  alone,  working, 
thinking,  living. 

Meanwhile  another  infant  was  coming,  fruit  of  this 
little  peace  and  tenderness  between  the  separating  parents. 
Paul  was  seventeen  months  old  when  the  new  baby  was 
born.  He  was  then  a  plump,  pale  child,  quiet,  with  heavy 
blue  eyes,  and  still  the  peculiar  slight  knitting  of  the 
brows.  The  last  child  was  also  a  boy,  fair  and  bonny. 
Mrs.  Morel  was  sorry  when  she  knew  she  was  witH  child, 
both  for  economic  reasons  and  because  she  did  not  love 
her  husband;  but  not  for  the  sake  of  the  infant. 

They  called  the  baby  Arthur.  He  was  very  pretty, 
with  a  mop  of  gold  curls,  and  he  loved  his  father  from 
the  first.  Mrs.  Morel  was  glad  this  child  loved  the 
father.  Hearing  the  miner's  footsteps,  the  baby  would 
put  up  his  arms  and  crow.  And  if  Morel  were  in  a  good 
temper,  he  called  back  immediately,  in  his  hearty,  mellow 
voice: 

"  What  then,  my  beauty  ?  I  sh'll  come  to  thee  in  a 
minute." 

And  as  soon  as  he  had  taken  off  his  pit-coat,  Mrs. 
Morel  would  put  an  apron  round  the  child,  and  give  him 
to  his  father. 

"  What  a  sight  the  lad  looks ! "  she  would  exclaim 
sometimes,  taking  back  the  baby,  that  was  smutted  on 
the  face  from  his  father's  kisses  and  play.  Then  Morel 
laughed  joyfully. 

"He's  a  little  collier,  bless  his  bit  o'  mutton!"  he 
exclaimed. 

And  these  were  the  happy  moments  of  her  life  now, 
when  the  children  included  the  father  in  her  heart. 

Meanwhile  William  grew  bigger  and  stronger  and  more 
active,  while  Paul,  always  rather  delicate  and  quiet,  got 


62  Sons  and  Lovers 

slimmer,  and  trotted  after  his  mother  like  her  shadow. 
He  was  usually  active  and  interested,  but  sometimes  he 
would  have  fits  of  depression.  Then  the  mother  would 
find  the  boy  of  three  or  four  crying  on  the  sofa. 

"  What 's  the  matter?  "  she  asked,  and  got  no  answer. 

"  What 's  the  matter?  "  she  insisted,  getting  cross. 

"  I  don't  know,"  sobbed  the  child. 

So  she  tried  to  reason  him  out  of  it,  or  to  amuse  him, 
but  without  effect.  It  made  her  feel  beside  herself.  Then 
the  father,  always  impatient,  would  jump  from  his  chair 
and  shout: 

"  If  he  does  n't  stop,  I  '11  smack  him  till  he  does." 

"  You  '11  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  the  mother  coldly. 
And  then  she  carried  the  child  into  the  yard,  plumped  him 
into  his  little  chair,  and  said :  "  Now  cry  there,  Misery !  " 

And  then  a  butterfly  on  the  rhubarb-leaves  perhaps 
caught  his  eye,  or  at  last  he  cried  himself  to  sleep.  These 
fits  were  not  often,  but  they  caused  a  shadow  in  Mrs. 
Morel's  heart,  and  her  treatment  of  Paul  was  different 
from  that  of  the  other  children. 

Suddenly  one  morning  as  she  was  looking  down  the  alley 
of  the  Bottoms  for  the  barm-man,  she  heard  a  voice 
calling  her.  It  was  the  thin  little  Mrs.  Anthony  in  brown 
velvet. 

"  Here,  Mrs.  Morel,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  your 
Willie." 

"Oh,  do  you?"  replied  Mrs.  Morel.  "Why,  what's 
the  matter?  " 

"  A  lad  as  gets  'old  of  another  an'  rips  his  clothes  off'n 
'is  back,"  Mrs.  Anthony  said,  "  wants  showing  something." 

"  Your  Alfred  's  as  old  as  my  William,"  said  Mrs. 
Morel. 

"  'Appen  'e  is,  but  that  does  n't  give  him  a  right  to 
get  hold  of  the  boy's  collar,  an'  fair  rip  it  clean  off  his 
back." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "  I  don't  thrash  my  children, 
and  even  if  I  did,  I  should  want  to  hear  their  side  of 
the  tale." 


Casting  off  of  Morel  63 

"  They  'd  happen  be  a  bit  better  if  they  did  get  a  good 
hidin',"  retorted  Mrs.  Anthony.  "  When  it  comes  ter 
rippin'  a  lad's  clean  collar  off 'n  'is  back  a  purpose  —  " 

"  I  'm  sure  he  did  n't  do  it  on  purpose,"  said  Mrs. 
Morel. 

"  Make  me  a  liar !  "  shouted  Mrs.  Anthony. 

Mrs.  Morel  moved  away  and  closed  her  gate.  Her  hand 
trembled  as  she  held  her  mug  of  barm. 

"  But  I  s'll  let  your  mester  know,"  Mrs.  Anthony  cried 
after  her. 

At  dinner-time,  when  William  had  finished  his  meal  and 
wanted  to  be  off  again  —  he  was  then  eleven  years  old  — 
his  mother  said  to  him: 

"  What  did  you  tear  Alfred  Anthony's  collar  for?  " 

"When  did  I  tear  his  collar?" 

"  I  don't  know  when,  but  his  mother  says  you  did." 

"  Why  —  it  was  yesterday  —  an'  it  was  torn  a'ready." 

"  But  you  tore  it  more." 

"  Well,  I  'd  got  a  cobbler  as  'ad  licked  seventeen  —  an' 
Alfy  Ant'ny  'e  says: 

'  Adam  an'  Eve  an'  pinch-me, 

Went  down  to  a  river  to  bade. 
Adam  an'  Eve  got  drownded, 
Who  do  yer  think  got  saved? ' 

An'  so  I  says,  '  Oh,  Pinch-you,'  an'  so  I  pinched  'im,  an' 
'e  was  mad,  an'  so  he  snatched  my  cobbler  an'  run  off  with 
it.  An'  so  I  run  after  'im,  an'  when  I  was  gettin'  hold 
of  him,  'e  dodged,  an'  it  ripped  'is  collar.  But  I  got  my 
cobbler  —  " 

He  pulled  from  his  pocket  a  black  old  horse-chestnut 
hanging  on  a  string.  This  old  cobbler  had  "  cobbled  "  — 
hit  and  smashed  —  seventeen  other  cobblers  on  similar 
strings.  So  the  boy  was  proud  of  his  veteran. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "  you  know  you  've  got  no 
right  to  rip  his  collar." 

"  Well,  our  mother !  "  he  answered.     "  I  never  meant 


64  Sons  and  Lovers 

tr'a  done  it  —  an'  it  was  on'y  an  old  indirubber  collar  as 
was  torn  a'ready." 

"  Next  time,"  said  his  mother,  "  you  be  more  careful. 
I  should  n't  like  it  if  you  came  home  with  your  collar  torn 
off." 

"  I  don't  care,  our  mother;   I  never  did  it  a-purpose." 

The  boy  was  rather  miserable  at  being  reprimanded. 

"  No  —  well,  you  be  more  careful." 

William  fled  away,  glad  to  be  exonerated.  And  Mrs. 
Morel,  who  hated  any  bother  with  the  neighbours,  thought 
she  would  explain  to  Mrs.  Anthony,  and  the  business  would 
be  over. 

But  that  evening  Morel  came  in  from  the  pit  looking 
very  sour.  He  stood  in  the  kitchen  and  glared  round,  but 
did  not  speak  for  some  minutes.  Then: 

"  Wheer  's  that  Willy?  "  he  asked. 

"  What  do  you  want  Mm  for?  "  asked  Mrs.  Morel,  who 
had  guessed. 

"  I  '11  let  'im  know  when  I  get  him,"  said  Morel,  bang- 
ing his  pit-bottle  on  to  the  dresser. 

"  I  suppose  Mrs.  Anthony  's  got  hold  of  you  and  been 
yarning  to  you  about  their  Alfy's  collar,"  said  Mrs.  Morel, 
rather  sneering. 

"  Niver  mind  who 's  got  hold  of  me,"  said  Morel. 
"  When  I  get  hold  of  'im  I  '11  make  his  bones  rattle." 

"  It 's  a  poor  tale,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "  that  you  're 
so  ready  to  side  with  any  snipey  vixen  who  likes  to  come 
telling  tales  against  your  own  children." 

"  I  '11  learn  'im !  "  said  Morel.  "  It  none  matters  to 
me  whose  lad  'e  is ;  'e  's  none  goin'  rippin'  an'  tearin' 
about  just  as  he  's  a  mind." 

"  '  Ripping  and  tearing  about ' !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Morel. 
"  He  was  running  after  that  Alfy,  who  'd  taken  his  cob- 
bler, and  he  accidentally  got  hold  of  his  collar,  because 
the  other  dodged  —  as  an  Anthony  would." 

"  I  know !  "  shouted  Morel  threateningly. 

"  You  would,  before  you  're  told,"  replied  his  wife 
bitingly. 


Casting  off  of  Morel  65 

"  Niver  you  mind,"  stormed  Morel.  "  I  know  my  busi- 
ness." 

"  That 's  more  than  doubtful,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "  sup- 
posing some  loud-mouthed  creature  had  been  getting  you 
to  thrash  your  own  children." 

"  I  know,"  repeated  Morel. 

And  he  said  no  more,  but  sat  and  nursed  his  bad  tem- 
per. Suddenly  William  ran  in,  saying: 

,"  Can  I  have  my  tea,  mother?  " 

"  Tha  can  ha'e  more  than  that !  "  shouted  Morel. 

"  Hold  your  noise,  man,"  said  Mrs.  Morel ;  "  and  don't 
look  so  ridiculous." 

"  He  '11  look  ridiculous  before  I  've  done  wi'  him !  " 
shouted  Morel,  rising  from  his  chair  and  glaring  at  his 
son. 

William,  who  was  a  tall  lad  for  his  years,  but  very 
sensitive,  had  gone  pale,  and  was  looking  in  a  sort  of 
horror  at  his  father. 

"  Go  out !  "  Mrs.  Morel  commanded  her  son. 

William  had  not  the  wit  to  move.  Suddenly  Morel 
clenched  his  fist,  and  crouched. 

"  I  '11  gi'e  him  '  go  out ' !  "  he  shouted  like  an  insane 
thing. 

"  What !  "  cried  Mrs.  Morel,  panting  with  rage.  "  You 
shall  not  touch  him  for  her  telling,  you  shall  not !  " 

"  Shonna  I?  "  shouted  Morel.     "  Shonna  I?  " 

And,  glaring  at  the  boy,  he  ran  forward.  Mrs.  Morel 
sprang  in  between  them,  with  her  fist  lifted. 

"  Don't  you  dare!  "  she  cried. 

"What!"  he  shouted,  baffled  for  the  moment. 
"What!" 

She  spun  round  to  her  son. 

'"  Go  out  of  the  house !  "  she  commanded  him  in  fury. 

The  boy,  as  if  hypnotized  by  her,  turned  suddenly  and 
was  gone.  Morel  rushed  to  the  door,  but  was  too  late. 
He  returned,  pale  under  his  pit-dirt  with  fury.  But  now 
his  wife  was  fully  roused. 

"  Only  dare !  "  she  said  in  a  loud,  ringing  voice.     "  Only 


66  Sons  and  Lovers 

dare,  milord,  to  lay  a  finger  on  that  child !  You  '11  regret 
it  for  ever." 

He  was  afraid  of  her.    In  a  towering  rage,  he  sat  down. 

When  the  children  were  old  enough  to  be  left,  Mrs. 
Morel  joined  the  Women's  Guild.  It  was  a  little  club  of 
women  attached  to  the  Co-operative  Wholesale  Society, 
which  met  on  Monday  night  in  the  long  room  over  the 
grocery  shop  of  the  Bestwood  "  Co-op."  The  women 
were  supposed  to  discuss  the  benefits  to  be  derived  from 
co-operation,  and  other  social  questions.  Sometimes  Mrs. 
Morel  read  a  paper.  It  seemed  queer  to  the  children  to 
see  their  mother,  who  was  always  busy  about  the  house, 
sitting  writing  in  her  rapid  fashion,  thinking,  referring  to 
books,  and  writing  again.  They  felt  for  her  on  such  occa- 
sions the  deepest  respect. 

But  they  loved  the  Guild.  It  was  the  only  thing  to 
which  they  did  not  grudge  their  mother  —  and  that  partly 
because  she  enjoyed  it,  partly  because  of  the  treats  they 
derived  from  it.  The  Guild  was  called  by  some  hostile 
husbands,  who  found  their  wives  getting  too  independent, 
the  "  clat-fart  "  shop  —  that  is,  the  gossip  shop.  It  is 
true,  from  off  the  basis  of  the  Guild,  the  women  could  look 
at  their  homes,  at  the  conditions  of  their  own  lives,  and 
find  fault.  So  the  colliers  found  their  women  had  a  new 
standard  of  their  own,  rather  disconcerting.  And  also, 
Mrs.  Morel  always  had  a  lot  of  news  on  Monday  nights, 
so  that  the  children  liked  William  to  be  in  when  their 
mother  came  home,  because  she  told  him  things. 

Then,  when  the  lad  was  thirteen,  she  got  him  a  job  in 
the  "  Co-op  "  office.  He  was  a  very  clever  boy,  frank, 
with  rather  rough  features  and  real  viking  blue  eyes. 

"  What  dost  want  ter  ma'e  a  stool-harsed  Jack  on  'im 
for?  "  said  Morel.  "  All  he  '11  do  is  to  wear  his  britches 
behind  out,  an'  earn  nowt.  What 's  'e  startin'  wi'?  " 

"  It  does  n't  matter  what  he  's  starting  with,'  said  Mrs. 
Morel. 

"  It  wouldna !  Put  'im  i'  th'  pit  wi'  me,  an'  'e  '11  earn 
a  easy  ten  shillin'  a  wik  from  th'  start.  But  six  shillin' 


Casting  off  of  Morel  67 

wearin'  his  truck-end  out  on  a  stool 's  better  than  ten 
shillin'  i'  th'  pit  wi'  me,  I  know." 

"  He  is  not  going  in  the  pit,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "  and 
there  's  an  end  of  it." 

"  It  wor  good  enough  for  me,  but  it 's  non  good  enough 
for  'im."  „ 

"  If  your  mother  put  you  in  the  pit  at  twelve,  it 's  no 
reason  why  I  should  do  the  same  with  my  lad." 

"Twelve!     It  wor  a  sight  afore  that!" 

"  Whenever  it  was,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

She  was  very  proud  of  her  son.  He  went  to  the  night- 
school,  and  learned  shorthand,  so  that  by  the  time  he  was 
sixteen  he  was  the  best  shorthand  clerk  and  book-keeper 
on  the  place,  except  one.  Then  he  taught  in  the  night- 
school.  But  he  was  so  fiery  that  only  his  good-nature 
and  his  size  protected  him. 

All  the  things  that  men  do  —  the  decent  things  — 
William  did.  He  could  run  like  the  wind.  When  he  was 
twelve  he  won  a  first  prize  in  a  race  —  an  inkstand  of 
glass,  shaped  like  an  anvil.  It  stood  proudly  on  the 
dresser,  and  gave  Mrs.  Morel  a  keen  pleasure.  The  boy 
only  ran  for  her.  He  flew  home  with  his  anvil,  breathless, 
with  a  "  Look,  mother !  "  That  was  the  first  real  tribute 
to  herself.  She  took  it  like  a  queen. 

"  How  pretty !  "  she  exclaimed. 

Then  he  began  to  get  ambitious.  He  gave  all  his  money 
to  his  mother.  When  he  earned  fourteen  shillings  a  week, 
she  gave  him  back  two  for  himself,  and,  as  he  never  drank, 
he  felt  himself  rich.  He  went  about  with  the  bourgeois  of 
Bestwood.  The  townlet  contained  nothing  higher  than  the 
clergyman.  Then  came  the  bank  manager,  then  the  doc- 
tors, then  the  tradespeople,  and  after  that  the  hosts  of 
colliers.  William  began  to  consort  with  the  sons  of  the 
chemist,  the  schoolmaster,  and  the  tradesmen.  He  played 
billiards  in  the  Mechanics  Hall.  Also  he  danced  —  this 
in  spite  of  his  mother.  All  the  life  that  Bestwood  offered 
he  enjoyed,  from  the  sixpenny-hops  down  Church  Street, 
to  sports  and  billiards. 


68  Sons  and  Lovers 

Paul  was  treated  to  dazzling  descriptions  of  all  kinds 
of  flower-like  ladies,  most  of  whom  lived  like  cut  blooms  in 
William's  heart  for  a  brief  fortnight. 

Occasionally  some  flame  would  come  in  pursuit  of  her 
errant  swain.  Mrs.  Morel  would  find  a  strange  girl  at  the 
door,  and  immediately  she  sniffed  the  air. 

"  Is  Mr.  Morel  in?  "  the  damsel  would  ask  appealingly. 

"  My  husband  is  at  home,"  Mrs.  Morel  replied. 

"I  —  I  mean  young  Mr.  Morel,"  repeated  the  maiden 
painfully. 

"  Which  one?    There  are  several." 

Whereupon  much  blushing  and  stammering  from  the 
fair  one. 

"I  —  I  met  Mr.  Morel  —  at  Ripley,"  she  explained. 

"Oh  — at  a  dance!" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  don't  approve  of  the  girls  my  son  meets  at  dances. 
And  he  is  not  at  home." 

Then  he  came  home  angry  with  his  mother  for  having 
turned  the  girl  away  so  rudely.  He  was  a  careless,  yet 
eager-looking  fellow,  who  walked  with  long  strides,  some- 
times frowning,  often  with  his  cap  pushed  jollily  to  the 
back  of  his  head.  Now  he  came  in  frowning.  He  threw 
his  cap  on  to  the  sofa,  and  took  his  strong  jaw  in  his 
hand,  and  glared  down  at  his  mother.  She  was  small,  with 
her  hair  taken  straight  back  from  her  forehead.  She 
had  a  quiet  air  of  authority,  and  yet  of  rare  warmth. 
Knowing  her  son  was  angry,  she  trembled  inwardly. 

"  Did  a  lady  call  for  me  yesterday,  mother?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  about  a  lady.     There  was  a  girl  came." 

"  And  why  did  n't  you  tell  me?  " 

"  Because  I  forgot,  simply." 

He  fumed  a  little. 

"  A  good-looking  girl  —  seemed  a  lady  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  look  at  her." 

"  Big  brown  eyes?  " 

"  I  did  not  look.  And  tell  your  girls,  my  son,  that  when 
they  're  running  after  you,  they  're  not  to  come  and  ask 


Casting  off  of  Morel  69 

your  mother  for  you.  Tell  them  that  —  brazen  baggages 
you  meet  at  dancing-classes." 

"  I  'm  sure  she  was  a  nice  girl." 

"  And  I  'm  sure  she  was  n't." 

There  ended  the  altercation.  Over  the  dancing  there 
was  a  great  strife  between  the  mother  and  the  son.  The 
grievance  reached  its  height  when  William  said  he  was  go- 
ing to  Hucknall  Torkard  —  considered  a  low  town  —  to 
a  fancy-dress  ball.  He  was  to  be  a  Highlander.  There 
was  a  dress  he  could  hire,  which  one  of  his  friends  had 
had,  and  which  fitted  him  perfectly.  The  Highland  suit 
came  home.  Mrs.  Morel  received  it  coldly  and  would  not 
unpack  it. 

"  My  suit  come?  "  cried  William. 

"  There  's  a  parcel  in  the  front-room." 

He  rushed  in  and  cut  the  string. 

"  How  do  you  fancy  your  son  in  this !  "  he  said,  en- 
raptured, showing  her  the  suit. 

"  You  know  I  don't  want  to  fancy  you  in  it." 

On  the  evening  of  the  dance,  when  he  had  come  home 
to  dress,  Mrs.  Morel  put  on  her  coat  and  bonnet. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  stop  and  see  me,  mother?"  he 
asked. 

"  No ;   I  don't  want  to  see  you,"  she  replied. 

She  was  rather  pale,  and  her  face  was  closed  and  hard. 
She  was  afraid  of  her  son's  going  the  same  way  as  his 
father.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  his  heart  stood  still 
with  anxiety.  Then  he  caught  sight  of  the  Highland  bon- 
net with  its  ribbons.  He  picked  it  up  gleefully,  forgetting 
her.  She  went  out. 

When  he  was  nineteen  he  suddenly  left  the  Co-op  office 
and  got  a  situation  in  Nottingham.  In  his  new  place  he 
had  thirty  shillings  a  week  instead  of  eighteen.  This  was 
indeed  a  rise.  His  mother  and  his  father  were  brimmed 
up  with  pride.  Everybody  praised  William.  It  seemed 
he  was  going  to  get  on  rapidly.  Mrs.  Morel  hoped,  with 
his  aid,  to  help  her  younger  sons.  Annie  was  now  studying 
to  be  a  teacher.  Paul,  also  very  clever,  was  getting  on 


70  Sons  and  Lovers 

well,  having  lessons  in  French  and  German  from  his  god- 
father, the  clergyman  who  was  still  a  friend  to  Mrs.  Morel. 
Arthur,  a  spoilt  and  very  good-looking  boy,  was  at  the 
Board-school,  but  there  was  talk  of  his  trying  to  get  a 
scholarship  for  the  High  School  in  Nottingham. 

William  remained  a  year  at  his  new  post  in  Notting- 
ham. He  was  studying  hard,  and  growing  serious.  Some- 
thing seemed  to  be  fretting  him.  Still  he  went  out  to  the 
dances  and  the  river  parties.  He  did  not  drink.  The 
children  were  all  rabid  teetotallers.  He  came  home  very 
late  at  night,  and  sat  yet  longer  studying.  His  mother 
implored  him  to  take  more  care,  to  do  one  thing  or 
another. 

"  Dance,  if  you  want  to  dance,  my  son ;  but  don't  think 
you  can  work  in  the  office,  and  then  amuse  yourself,  and 
then  study  on  top  of  all.  You  can't;  the  human  frame 
won't  stand  it.  Do  one  thing  or  the  other  —  amuse  your- 
self or  learn  Latin;  but  don't  try  to  do  both." 

Then  he  got  a  place  in  London,  at  a  hundred  and  twenty 
a  year.  This  seemed  a  fabulous  sum.  His  mother  doubted 
almost  whether  to  rejoice  or  to  grieve. 

"  They  want  me  in  Lime  Street  on  Monday  week, 
mother,"  he  cried,  his  eyes  blazing  as  he  read  the  letter. 
Mrs.  Morel  felt  everything  go  silent  inside  her.  He  read 
the  letter :  "  *  And  will  you  reply  by  Thursday  whether 
you  accept.  Yours  faithfully  —  '  They  want  me,  mother, 
at  a  hundred  and  twenty  a  year,  and  don't  even  ask  to 
see  me.  Did  n't  I  tell  you  I  could  do  it !  Think  of  me 
in  London!  And  I  can  give  you  twenty  pounds  a  year, 
mater.  We  s'll  all  be  rolling  in  money." 

"  We  shall,  my  son,"  she  answered  sadly. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  that  she  might  be  more  hurt 
at  his  going  away  than  glad  of  his  success.  Indeed,  as 
the  days  drew  near  for  his  departure,  her  heart  began  to 
close  and  grow  dreary  with  despair.  She  loved  him  so 
much !  More  than  that,  she  hoped  in  him  so  much.  Almost 
she  lived  by  him.  She  liked  to  do  things  for  him;  she 
liked  to  put  a  cup  for  his  tea  and  to  iron  his  collar,  of 


Casting  off  of  Morel  71 

which  he  was  so  proud.  It  was  a  joy  to  her  to  have  him 
proud  of  his  collars.  There  was  no  laundry.  So  she  used 
to  rub  away  at  them  with  her  little  convex  iron,  to  polish 
them,  till  they  shone  from  the  sheer  pressure  of  her  arm. 
Now  she  would  not  do  it  for  him.  Now  he  was  going 
away.  She  felt  almost  as  if  he  were  going  as  well  out  of 
her  heart.  He  did  not  seem  to  leave  her  inhabited  with 
himself.  That  was  the  grief  and  the  pain  to  her.  He  took 
nearly  all  himself  away. 

A  few  days  before  his  departure  —  he  was  just  twenty 
—  he  burned  his  love-letters.  They  had  hung  on  a  file  at 
the  top  of  the  kitchen  cupboard.  From  some  of  them  he 
had  read  extracts  to  his  mother.  Some  of  them  she  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  read  herself.  But  most  were  too 
trivial. 

Now,  on  the  Saturday  morning  he  said : 

"  Come  on,  'Postle,  let 's  go  through  my  letters,  and  you 
can  have  the  birds  and  flowers." 

Mrs.  Morel  had  done  her  Saturday's  work  on  the  Fri- 
day, because  he  was  having  a  last  day's  holiday.  She  was 
making  him  a  rice  cake,  which  he  loved,  to  take  with  him. 
He  was  scarcely  conscious  that  she  was  so  miserable. 

He  took  the  first  letter  off  the  file.  It  was  mauve-tinted, 
and  had  purple  and  green  thistles.  William  sniffed  the 
page. 

"  Nice  scent !     Smell." 

And  he  thrust  the  sheet  under  Paul's  nose. 

"  Urn !  "  said  Paul,  breathing  in.  '  What  d'  you  call  it? 
Smell,  mother." 

His  mother  ducked  her  small,  fine  nose  down  to  the 
paper. 

"  /  don't  want  to  smell  their  rubbish,"  she  said,  sniffing. 

"  This  girl's  father,"  said  William,  "  is  as  rich  as 
Croesus.  He  owns  property  without  end.  She  calls  me 
Lafayette,  because  I  know  French.  '  You  will  see,  I  've 
forgiven  you  '  —  I  like  her  forgiving  me.  *  I  told  mother 
about  you  this  morning,  and  she  will  have  much  pleasure 
if  you  come  to  tea  on  Sunday,  but  she  will  have  to  get 


72  Sons  and  Lovers 

father's  consent  also.  I  sincerely  hope  he  will  agree.  I 
will  let  you  know  how  it  transpires.  If,  however,  you  —  : 

"'Let  you  know  how  it'  what?"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Morel. 

"  '  Transpires  '  —  oh  yes !  " 

"  '  Transpires  ' !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Morel  mockingly.  "  I 
thought  she  was  so  well  educated  !  " 

William  felt  slightly  uncomfortable,  and  abandoned  this 
maiden,  giving  Paul  the  corner  with  the  thistles.  He  con- 
tinued to  read  extracts  from  his  letters,  some  of  which 
amused  his  mother,  some  of  which  saddened  her  and  made 
her  anxious  for  him. 

"  My  lad,"  she  said,  "  they  're  very  wise.  They  know 
they  've  only  got  to  flatter  your  vanity,  and  you  press  up 
to  them  like  a  dog  that  has  its  head  scratched." 

"  Well,  they  can't  go  on  scratching  for  ever,"  he  re- 
plied. "  And  when  they  've  done,  I  trot  away." 

"  But  one  day  you  '11  find  a  string  round  your  neck  that 
you  can't  pull  off,"  she  answered. 

"  Not  me !  I  'm  equal  to  any  of  'em,  mater,  they 
need  n't  flatter  themselves." 

"  You  flatter  yourself,"  she  said  quietly. 

Soon  there  was  a  heap  of  twisted  black  pages,  all  that 
remained  of  the  file  of  scented  letters,  except  that  Paul 
had  thirty  or  forty  pretty  tickets  from  the  corners  of 
the  note-paper  —  swallows  and  forget-me-nots  and  ivy 
sprays.  And  William  went  to  London,  to  start  a  new 
file.  ' 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE    YOUNG    LIFE    OF    PAUL 

PAUL  would  be  built  like  his  mother,  slightly  and  rather 
small.  His  fair  hair  went  reddish,  and  then  dark 
brown;  his  eyes  were  grey.  He  was  a  pale,  quiet  child, 
with  eyes  that  seemed  to  listen,  and  with  a  full,  dropping 
underlip. 

As  a  rule  he  seemed  old  for  his  years.  He  was  so  con- 
scious of  what  other  people  felt,  particularly  his  mother. 
When  she  fretted  he  understood,  and  could  have  no  peace. 
His  soul  seemed  always  attentive  to  her. 

As  he  grew  older  he  became  stronger.  William  was  too 
far  removed  from  him  to  accept  him  as  a  companion.  So 
the  smaller  boy  belonged  at  first  almost  entirely  to  Annie. 
She  was  a  torn-boy  and  a  "  flybie-skybie,"  as  her  mother 
called  her.  But  she  was  intensely  fond  of  her  second 
brother.  So  Paul  was  towed  round  at  the  heels  of  Annie, 
sharing  her  game.  She  raced  wildly  at  lerky  with  the 
other  young  wild-cats  of  the  Bottoms.  And  always  Paul 
flew  beside  her,  living  her  share  of  the  game,  having  as 
yet  no  part  of  his  own.  He  was  quiet  and  not  noticeable. 
But  his  sister  adored  him.  He  always  seemed  to  care  for 
things  if  she  wanted  him  to. 

She  had  a  big  doll  of  which  she  was  fearfully  proud, 
though  not  so  fond.  So  she  laid  the  doll  on  the  sofa,  and 
covered  it  with  an  antimacassar,  to  sleep.  Then  she  for- 
got it.  Meantime  Paul  must  practise  jumping  off  the 
sofa  arm.  So  he  jumped  crash  into  the  face  of  the  hidden 
doll.  Annie  rushed  up,  uttered  a  loud  wail,  and  sat  down 
to  weep  a  dirge.  Paul  remained  quite  still. 

"  You  could  n't  tell  it  was  there,  mother ;   you  could  n't 


74  Sons  and  Lovers 

tell  it  was  there,"  he  repeated  over  and  over.  So  long 
as  Annie  wept  for  the  doll  he  sat  helpless  with  misery. 
Her  grief  wore  itself  out.  She  forgave  her  brother  — 
he  was  so  much  upset.  But  a  day  or  two  afterwards  she 
was  shocked. 

"  Let  Js  make  a  sacrifice  of  Arabella,"  he  said.  "  Let 's 
burn  her." 

She  was  horrified,  yet  rather  fascinated.  She  wanted 
to  see  what  the  boy  would  do.  He  made  an  altar  of 
bricks,  pulled  some  of  the  shavings  out  of  Arabella's 
body,  put  the  waxen  fragments  into  the  hollow  face, 
poured  on  a  little  paraffin,  and  set  the  whole  thing  alight. 
He  watched  with  wicked  satisfaction  the  drops  of  wax 
melt  off  the  broken  forehead  of  Arabella,  and  drop  like 
sweat  into  the  flame.  So  long  as  the  stupid  big  doll 
burned  he  rejoiced  in  silence.  At  the  end  he  poked  among 
the  embers  with  a  stick,  fished  out  the  arms  and  legs,  all 
blackened,  and  smashed  them  under  stones. 

"  That 's  the  sacrifice  of  Missis  Arabella,"  he  said. 
"  An5  I  'm  glad  there  's  nothing  left  of  her." 

Which  disturbed  Annie  inwardly,  although  she  could 
say  nothing.  He  seemed  to  hate  the  doll  so  intensely,  be- 
cause he  had  broken  it. 

All  the  children,  but  particularly  Paul,  were  peculiarly 
against  their  father,  along  with  their  mother.  Morel  con- 
tinued to  bully  and  to  drink.  He  had  periods,  months  at 
a  time,  when  he  made  the  whole  life  of  the  family  a  misery. 
Paul  never  forgot  coming  home  from  the  Band  of  Hope 
one  Monday  evening  and  finding  his  mother  with  her  eye 
swollen  and  discoloured,  his  father  standing  on  the  hearth- 
rug, feet  astride,  his  head  down,  and  William,  just  home 
from  work,  glaring  at  his  father.  There  was  a  silence 
as  the  young  children  entered,  but  none  of  the  elders 
looked  round. 

William  was  white  to  the  lips,  and  his  fists  were 
clenched.  He  waited  until  the  children  were  silent,  watch- 
ing with  children's  rage  and  hate ;  then  he  said  : 

"  You  coward,xyou  dare  n't  do  it  when  I  was  in." 


The  Young  Life  of  Paul  75 

But  Morel's  blood  was  up.  He  swung  round  on  his 
son.  William  was  bigger,  but  Morel  was  hard-muscled, 
and  mad  with  fury. 

"  Doss  n't  I?  "  he  shouted.  "  Doss  n't  I?  Ha'e  much 
more  o'  thy  chelp,  my  young  jockey,  an'  I  '11  rattle  my 
fist  about  thee.  Ay,  an'  I  sholl  that,  dost  see." 

Morel  crouched  at  the  knees  and  showed  his  fist  in  an 
ugly,  almost  beast-like  fashion.  William  was  white  with 
rage. 

"Will  yer?"  he  said,  quiet  and  intense.  "It  'ud  be 
the  last  time,  though." 

Morel  danced  a  little  nearer,  crouching,  drawing  back 
his  fist  to  strike.  William  put  his  fists  ready.  A  light 
came  into  his  blue  eyes,  almost  like  a  laugh.  He  watched 
his  father.  Another  word,  and  the  men  would  have  be- 
gun to  fight.  Paul  hoped  they  would.  The  three  children 
sat  pale  on  the  sofa. 

"  Stop  it,  both  of  you,"  cried  Mrs.  Morel  in  a  hard 
voice.  "  We  've  had  enough  for  one  night.  And  you"  she 
said,  turning  on  to  her  husband,  "  look  at  your  children !  " 

Morel  glanced  at  the  sofa. 

"  Look  at  the  children,  you  nasty  little  bitch !  "  he 
sneered.  "  Why,  what  have  /  done  to  the  children,  I 
should  like  to  know  ?  But  they  're  like  yourself ;  you  've 
put  'em  up  to  your  own  tricks  and  nasty  ways  —  you  've 
learned  'em  in  it,  you  'ave." 

She  refused  to  answer  him.  No  one  spoke.  After  a 
while  he  threw  his  boots  under  the  table  and  went  to  bed. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  let  me  have  a  go  at  him  ?  "  said 
William,  when  his  father  was  upstairs.  "  I  could  easily 
have  beaten  him." 

"  A  nice  thing  —  your  own  father,"  she  replied. 

"'Father!'"  repeated  William.  "Call  him  my 
father!" 

"  Well,  he  is  —  and  so  —  " 

"But  why  don't  you  let  me  settle  him?  I  could  do, 
easily." 

"  The  idea !  "  she  cried.    "  It  has  n't  come  to  that  yet." 


76  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  it 's  come  to  worse.  Look  at  yourself. 
Why  did  n't  you  let  me  give  it  him?  " 

"  Because  I  could  n't  bear  it,  so  never  think  of  it,"  she 
cried  quickly. 

And  the  children  went  to  bed,  miserably. 

When  William  was  growing  up,  the  family  moved  from 
the  Bottoms  to  a  house  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  command- 
ing a  view  of  the  valley,  which  spread  out  like  a  convex 
cockle-shell,  or  a  clamp-shell,  before  it.  In  front  of  the 
house  was  a  huge  old  ash-tree.  The  west  wind,  sweeping 
from  Derbyshire,  caught  the  houses  with  full  force,  and 
the  tree  shrieked  again.  Morel  liked  it. 

"  It 's  music,"  he  said.    "  It  sends  me  to  sleep." 

But  Paul  and  Arthur  and  Annie  hated  it.  To  Paul  it 
became  almost  a  demoniacal  noise.  JThe  winter  of  their 
first  year  in  the  new  house  their  father  was  very  bad. 
The  children  played  in  the  street,  on  the  brim  of  the 
wide,  dark  valley,  until  eight  o'clock.  Then  they  went 
to  bed.  Their  mother  sat  sewing  below.  Having  such  a 
great  space  in  front  of  the  house  gave  the  children  a  feel- 
ing of  night,  of  vastness,  and  of  terror.  This  terror  came 
in  from  the  shrieking  of  the  tree  and  the  anguish  of  the 
home  discord.  Often  Paul  would  wake  up,  after  he  had 
been  asleep  a  long  time,  aware  of  thuds  downstairs.  In- 
stantly he  was  wide  awake.  Then  he  heard  the  booming 
shouts  of  his  father,  come  home  nearly  drunk,  then  the 
sharp  replies  of  his  mother,  then  the  bang,  bang  of  his 
father's  fist  on  the  table,  and  the  nasty  snarling  shout 
as  the  man's  voice  got  higher.  And  then  the  whole  was 
drowned  in  a  piercing  medley  of  shrieks  and  cries  from  the 
great,  wind-swept  ash-tree.  The  children  lay  silent  in  sus- 
pense, waiting  for  a  lull  in  the  wind  to  hear  what  their 
father  was  doing.  He  might  hit  their  mother  again. 
There  was  a  feeling  of  horror,  a  kind  of  bristling  in  the 
darkness,  and  a  sense  of  blood.  They  lay  with  their  hearts 
in  the  grip  of  an  intense  anguish.  The  wind  came  through 
the  tree  fiercer  and  fiercer.  All  the  cords  of  the  great  harp 
hummed,  whistled,  and  shrieked.  And  then  came  the  hor- 


The  Young  Life  of  Paul  77 

TOT  of  the  sudden  silence,  silence  everywhere,  outside  and 
downstairs.  What  was  it?  Was  it  a  silence  of  blood? 
What  had  he  done? 

The  children  lay  and  breathed  the  darkness.  And  then, 
at  last,  they  heard  their  father  throw  down  his  boots  and 
tramp  upstairs  in  his  stockinged  feet.  Still  they  listened. 
Then  at  last,  if  the  wind  allowed,  they  heard  the  water  of 
the  tap  drumming  into  the  kettle,  which  their  mother  was 
filling  for  morning,  and  they  could  go  to  sleep  in  peace. 

So  they  were  happy  in  the  morning  —  happy,  very 
happy  playing,  dancing  at  night  round  the  lonely  lamp- 
post in  the  midst  of  the  darkness.  But  they  had  one 
tight  place  of  anxiety  in  their  hearts,  one  darkness  in 
their  eyes,  which  showed  all  their  lives. 

Paul  hated  his  father.  As  a  boy  he  had  a  fervent 
private  religion. 

"  Make  him  stop  drinking,"  he  prayed  every  night. 
"  Lord,  let  my  father  die,"  he  prayed  very  often.  "  Let 
him  not  be  killed  at  pit,"  he  prayed  when,  after  tea,  the 
father  did  not  come  home  from  work. 

That  was  another  time  when  the  family  suffered  in- 
tensely. The  children  came  from  school  and  had  their 
teas.  On  the  hob  the  big  black  saucepan  was  simmering, 
the  stew-jar  was  in  the  oven,  ready  for  Morel's  dinner. 
He  was  expected  at  five  o'clock.  But  for  months  he  would 
stop  and  drink  every  night  on  his  way  from  work. 

In  the  winter  nights,  when  it  was  cold,  and  grew  dark 
early,  Mrs.  Morel  would  put  a  brass  candlestick  on  the 
table,  light  a  tallow  candle  to  save  the  gas.  The  children 
finished  their  bread-and-butter,  or  dripping,  and  were 
ready  to  go  out  to  play.  But  if  Morel  had  not  come 
they  faltered.  The  sense  of  his  sitting  in  all  his  pit-dirt, 
drinking,  after  a  long  day's  work,  not  coming  home  and 
eating  and  washing,  but  sitting,  getting  drunk,  on  an 
empty  stomach,  made  Mrs.  Morel  unable  to  bear  herself. 
From  her  the  feeling  was  transmitted  to  the  other  chil- 
dren. She  never  suffered  alone  any  more:  the  children 
suffered  with  her. 


78  Sons  and  Lovers 

Paul  went  out  to  play  with  the  rest.  Down  in  the 
great  trough  of  twilight,  tiny  clusters  of  lights  burned 
where  the  pits  were.  A  few  last  colliers  straggled  up 
the  dim  field-path.  The  lamplighter  came  along.  No 
more  colliers  came.  Darkness  shut  down  over  the  valley; 
work  was  gone.  It  was  night. 

Then  Paul  ran  anxiously  into  the  kitchen.  The  one 
candle  still  burned  on  the  table,  the  big  fire  glowed  red. 
Mrs.  Morel  sat  alone.  On  the  hob  the  saucepan  steamed; 
the  dinner-plate  lay  waiting  on  the  table.  All  the  room 
was  full  of  the  sense  of  waiting,  waiting  for  the  man  who 
was  sitting  in  his  pit-dirt,  dinnerless,  some  mile  away  from 
home,  across  the  darkness,  drinking  himself  drunk.  Paul 
stood  in  the  doorway. 

"  Has  my  dad  come?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  can  see  he  has  n't,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  cross  with 
the  futility  of  the  question. 

Then  the  boy  dawdled  about  near  his  mother.  They 
shared  the  same  anxiety.  Presently  Mrs.  Morel  went  out 
and  strained  the  potatoes. 

"  They  're  ruined  and  black,"  she  said ;  "  but  what  do 
I  care?  " 

Not  many  words  were  spoken.  Paul  almost  hated  his 
mother  for  suffering  because  his  father  did  not  come  home 
from  work. 

"  What  do  you  bother  yourself  for?  "  he  said.  "  If  he 
wants  to  stop  and  get  drunk,  why  don't  you  let  him?  " 

"  Let  him !  "  flashed  Mrs.  Morel.  "  You  may  well  say 
<  let  him.'  " 

She  knew  that  the  man  who  stops  on  the  way  home 
from  work  is  on  a  quick  way  to  ruining  himself  and  his 
home.  The  children  were  yet  young,  and  depended  on  the 
breadwinner.  William  gave  her  the  sense  of  relief,  pro- 
viding her  at  last  with  someone  to  turn  to  if  Morel  failed. 
But  the  tense  atmosphere  of  the  room  on  these  waiting 
evenings  was  the  same. 

The  minutes  ticked  away.  At  six  o'clock  still  the  cloth 
lay  on  the  table,  still  the  dinner  stood  waiting,  still  the 


The  Young  Life  of  Paul  79 

same  sense  of  anxiety  and  expectation  in  the  room.  The 
boy  could  not  stand  it  any  longer.  He  could  not  go  out 
and  play.  So  he  ran  in  to  Mrs.  Inger,  next  door  but  one, 
for  her  to  talk  to  him.  She  had  no  children.  Her  hus- 
band was  good  to  her,  but  was  in  a  shop,  and  came  home 
late.  So,  when  she  saw  the  lad  at  the  door,  she  called: 

"  Come  in,  Paul." 

The  two  sat  talking  for  some  time,  when  suddenly  the 
boy  rose,  saying: 

"  Well,  I  '11  be  going  and  seeing  if  my  mother  wants  an 
errand  doing." 

He  pretended  to  be  perfectly  cheerful,  and  did  not  tell 
his  friend  what  ailed  him.  Then  he  ran  indoors. 

Morel  at  these  times  came  in  churlish  and  hateful. 

"  This  is  a  nice  time  to  come  home,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  Wha  's  it  matter  to  yo'  what  time  I  come  whoam?  " 
he  shouted. 

And  everybody  in  the  house  was  still,  because  he  was 
dangerous.  He  ate  his  food  in  the  most  brutal  manner 
possible,  and,  when  he  had  done,  pushed  all  the  pots  in 
a  heap  away  from  him,  to  lay  his  arms  on  the  table. 
Then  he  went  to  sleep. 

Paul  hated  his  father  so.  The  collier's  small,  mean 
head,  with  its  black  hair  slightly  soiled  with  grey,  lay 
on  the  bare  arms,  and  the  face,  dirty  and  inflamed,  with 
a  fleshy  nose  and  thin,  paltry  brows,  was  turned  side- 
ways, asleep  with  beer  and  weariness  and  nasty  temper. 
If  anyone  entered  suddenly,  or  a  noise  were  made,  the 
man  looked  up  and  shouted: 

"  I  '11  lay  my  fist  about  thy  y'ead,  I  'm  tellin'  thee,  if 
tha'  doesna  stop  that  clatter!  Dost  hear?  " 

And  the  two  last  words,  shouted  in  a  bullying  fashion, 
usually  at  Annie,  made  the  family  writhe  with  hate  of  the 
man. 

He  was  shut  out  from  all  family  affairs.  No  one  told 
him  anything.  The  children,  alone  with  their  mother,  told 
her  all  about  the  day's  happenings,  everything.  Nothing 
had  really  taken  place  in  them  until  it  was  told  to  their 


80  Sons  and  Lovers 

mother.  But  as  soon  as  the  father  came  in,  everything 
stopped.  He  was  like  the  scotch  in  the  smooth,  happy 
machinery  of  the  home.  And  he  was  always  aware  of  this 
fall  of  silence  on  his  entry,  the  shutting  off  of  life,  the 
unwelcome.  But  now  it  was  gone  too  far  to  alter. 

He  would  dearly  have  liked  the  children  to  talk  to  him, 
but  they  could  not.  Sometimes  Mrs.  Morel  would  say : 

"You  ought  to  tell  your  father." 

Paul  won  a  prize  in  a  competition  in  a  child's  paper. 
Everybody  was  highly  jubilant. 

"  Now  you  'd  better  tell  your  father  when  he  comes  in," 
said  Mrs.  Morel.  "  You  know  how  he  carries  on  and  says 
he  's  never  told  anything." 

"  All  right,"  said  Paul.  But  he  would  almost  rather 
have  forfeited  the  prize  than  have  to  tell  his  father. 

"  I  've  won  a  prize  in  a  competition,  dad,"  he  said. 

Morel  turned  round  to  him. 

"  Have  you,  my  boy?     What  sort  of  a  competition?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  —  about  famous  women." 

"  And  how  much  is  the  prize,  then,  as  you  've  got  ?  " 

"  It 's  a  book." 

"Oh,  indeed!" 

"  About  birds." 

"Hm  — hm!" 

And  that  was  all.  Conversation  was  impossible  between 
the  father  and  any  other  member  of  the  family.  He  was 
an  outsider.  He  had  denied  the  God  in  him. 

The  only  times  when  he  entered  again  into  the  life  of 
his  own  people  was  when  he  worked,  and  was  happy  at 
work.  Sometimes,  in  the  evening,  he  cobbled  the  boots  or 
mended  the  kettle  or  his  pit-bottle.  Then  he  always 
wanted  several  attendants,  and  the  children  enjoyed  it. 
They  united  with  him  in  the  work,  in  the  actual  doing 
of  something,  when  he  was  his  real  self  again. 

He  was  a  good  workman,  dexterous,  and  one  who,  when 
he  was  in  a  good  humour,  always  sang.  He  had  whole 
periods,  months,  almost  years,  of  friction  and  nasty  tem- 
per. Then  sometimes  he  was  jolly  again.  It  was  nice  to 


The  Young  Life  of  Paul  81 

see  him  run  with  a  piece  of  red-hot  iron  into  the  scullery, 
crying: 

"  Out  of  my  road  —  out  of  my  road !  " 

Then  he  hammered  the  soft,  red-glowing  stuff  on  his 
iron  goose,  and  made  the  shape  he  wanted.  Or  he  sat 
absorbed  for  a  moment,  soldering.  Then  the  children 
watched  with  joy  as  the  metal  sank  suddenly  molten,  and 
was  shoved  about  against  the  nose  of  the  soldering-iron, 
while  the  room  was  full  of  a  scent  of  burnt  resin  and  hot 
tin,  and  Morel  was  silent  and  intent  for  a  minute.  He 
always  sang  when  he  mended  boots  because  of  the  jolly 
sound  of  hammering.  And  he  was  rather  happy  when  he 
sat  putting  great  patches  on  his  moleskin  pit  trousers, 
which  he  would  often  do,  considering  them  too  dirty,  and 
the  stuff  too  hard,  for  his  wife  to  mend. 

But  the  best  time  for  the  young  children  was  when  he 
made  fuses.  Morel  fetched  a  sheaf  of  long  sound  wheat- 
straws  from  the  attic.  These  he  cleaned  with  his  hand, 
till  each  one  gleamed  like  a  stalk  of  gold,  after  which  he 
cut  the  straws  into  lengths  of  about  six  inches,  leaving, 
if  he  could,  a  notch  at  the  bottom  of  each  piece.  He 
always  had  a  beautifully  sharp  knife  that  could  cut  a 
straw  clean  without  hurting  it.  Then  he  set  in  the  middle 
of  the  table  a  heap  of  gunpowder,  a  little  pile  of  black 
grains  upon  the  white-scrubbed  board.  He  made  and 
trimmed  the  straws  while  Paul  and  Annie  filled  and 
plugged  them.  Paul  loved  to  see  the  black  grains  trickle 
down  a  crack  in  his  palm  into  the  mouth  of  the  straw, 
peppering  j  ollily  downwards  till  the  straw  was  full.  Then 
he  bunged  up  the  mouth  with  a  bit  of  soap  —  which  he 
got  on  his  thumb-nail  from  a  pat  in  a  saucer  —  and  the 
straw  was  finished. 

"Look,  dad!  "he  said. 

"  That 's  right,  my  beauty,"  replied  Morel,  who  was 
peculiarly  lavish  of  endearments  to  his  second  son.  Paul 
popped  the  fuse  into  the  powder-tin,  ready  for  the  morn- 
ing, when  Morel  would  take  it  to  the  pit,  and  use  it  to 
fire  a  shot  that  would  blast  the  coal  down. 


82  Sons  and  Lovers 

Meantime  Arthur,  still  fond  of  his  father,  would  lean 
on  the  arm  of  Morel's  chair,  and  say: 

"  Tell  us  about  down  pit,  daddy." 

This  Morel  loved  to  do. 

"  Well,  there  's  one  little  'oss  —  we  call  'im  Taffy,"  he 
would  begin.  "  An'  he  's  a  f awce  un !  " 

Morel  had  a  warm  way  of  telling  a  story.  He  made 
one  feel  Taffy's  cunning. 

"  He  's  a  brown  un,"  he  would  answer,  "  an'  not  very 
high.  Well,  he  comes  i'  th'  stall  wi'  a  rattle,  an'  then  yo' 
'ear  'im  sneeze. 

"  '  Ello,  Taff,'  you  say,  'what  art  sneezin'  for?  Bin 
ta'ein'  some  snuff?  ' 

"  An'  'e  sneezes  again.  Then  he  slives  up  an'  shoves 
'is  'ead  on  yer,  that  cadin'. 

"  '  What 's  want,  Taff?  '  yo'  say." 

"  And  what  does  he?  "  Arthur  always  asked. 

"  He  wants  a  bit  o'  bacca,  my  duckey." 

This  story  of  Taffy  would  go  on  interminably,  and 
everybody  loved  it. 

Or  sometimes  it  was  a  new  tale. 

"An5  what  dost  think,  my  darlin'?  When  I  went  to 
put  my  coat  on  at  snap-time,  what  should  go  runnin'  up 
my  arm  but  a  mouse. 

"  «  Hey  up,  theer ! '  I  shouts. 

"  An'  I  wor  just  in  time  ter  get  'im  by  th'  tail." 

"And  did  you  kill  it?" 

"  I  did,  for  they  're  a  nuisance.  The  place  is  fair  snied 
wi'  'em." 

"  An'  what  do  they  live  on?  " 

"  The  corn  as  the  'osses  drops  —  an'  they  '11  get  in  your 
pocket  an'  eat  your  snap,  if  you  '11  let  'em  —  no  matter 
where  yo'  hing  your  coat  —  the  slivin',  nibblin'  little 
nuisances,  for  they  are." 

These  happy  evenings  could  not  take  place  unless  Morel 
had  some  job  to  do.  And  then  he  always  went  to  bed 
very  early,  often  before  the  children.  There  was  nothing 
remaining  for  him  to  stay  up  for,  when  he  had  finished 


The  Young  Life  of  Paul  83 

tinkering,  and  had  skimmed  the  headlines  of  the  news- 
paper. 

And  the  children  felt  secure  when  their  father  was  in 
bed.  They  lay  and  talked  softly  awhile.  Then  they 
started  as  the  lights  went  suddenly  sprawling  over  the 
ceiling  from  the  lamps  that  swung  in  the  hands  of  the 
colliers  tramping  by  outside,  going  to  take  the  nine  o'clock 
shift.  They  listened  to  the  voices  of  the  men,  imagined 
them  dipping  down  into  the  dark  valley.  Sometimes  they 
went  to  the  window  and  watched  the  three  or  four  lamps 
growing  tinier  and  tinier,  swaying  down  the  fields  in  the 
darkness.  Then  it  was  a  joy  to  rush  back  to  bed  and 
cuddle  closely  in  the  warmth. 

Paul  was  rather  a  delicate  boy,  subject  to  bronchitis. 
The  others  were  all  quite  strong;  so  this  was  another 
reason  for  his  mother's  difference  in  feeling  for  him.  One 
day  he  came  home  at  dinner-time  feeling  ill.  But  it  was 
not  a  family  to  make  any  fuss. 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  you?  "  his  mother  asked 
sharply. 

"  Nothing,"  he  replied. 

But  he  ate  no  dinner. 

"  If  you  eat  no  dinner,  you  're  not  going  to  school," 
she  said. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"  That 's  why." 

So  after  dinner  he  lay  down  on  the  sofa,  on  the  warm 
chintz  cushions  the  children  loved.  Then  he  fell  into  a 
kind  of  doze.  That  afternoon  Mrs.  Morel  was  ironing. 
Shf  listened  to  the  small,  restless  noise  the  boy  made  in 
hi<-  throat  as  she  worked.  Again  rose  in  her  heart  the  old, 
almost  weary  feeling  towards  him.  She  had  never  expected 
him  to  live.  And  yet  he  had  a  great  vitality  in  his  young 
body.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  a  little  relief  to  her 
if  he  had  died.  She  always  felt  a  mixture  of  anguish 
in  her  love  for  him. 

He,  in  his  semi-conscious  sleep,  was  vaguely  aware  of 
the  clatter  of  the  iron  on  the  iron-stand,  of  the  faint  thud, 


84  Sons  and  Lovers 

thud  on  the  ironing-board.  Once  roused,  he  opened  his 
eyes  to  see  his  mother  standing  on  the  hearthrug  with 
the  hot  iron  near  her  cheek,  listening,  as  it  were,  to  the 
heat.  Her  still  face,  with  the  mouth  closed  tight  from 
suffering  and  disillusion  and  self-denial,  and  her  nose  the 
smallest  bit  on  one  side,  and  her  blue  eyes  so  young,  quick, 
and  warm,  made  his  heart  contract  with  love.  When  she 
was  quiet,  so,  she  looked  brave  and  rich  with  life,  but  as 
if  she  had  been  done  out  of  her  rights.  It  hurt  the  boy 
keenly,  this  feeling  about  her  that  she  had  never  had  her 
life's  fulfilment :  and  his  own  incapability  to  make  up  to 
her  hurt  him  with  a  sense  of  impotence,  yet  made  him 
patiently  dogged  inside.  It  was  his  childish  aim. 

She  spat  on  the  iron,  and  a  little  ball  of  spit  bounded, 
raced  off  the  dark,  glossy  surface.  Then,  kneeling,  she 
rubbed  the  iron  on  the  sack  lining  of  the  hearthrug  vigor- 
ously. She  was  warm  in  the  ruddy  firelight.  Paul  loved 
the  way  she  crouched  and  put  her  head  on  one  side.  Her 
movements  were  light  and  quick.  It  was  always  a  pleasure 
to  watch  her.  Nothing  she  ever  did,  no  movement  she  ever 
made,  could  have  been  found  fault  with  by  her  children. 
The  room  was  warm  and  full  of  the  scent  of  hot  linen. 
Later  on  the  clergyman  came  and  talked  softly  with  her. 

Paul  was  laid  up  with  an  attack  of  bronchitis.  He 
did  not  mind  much.  What  happened  happened,  and  it 
was  no  good  kicking  against  the  pricks.  He  loved  the 
evenings,  after  eight  o'clock,  when  the  light  was  put  out, 
and  he  could  watch  the  fire-flames  spring  over  the  dark- 
ness of  the  walls  and  ceiling;  could  watch  huge  shadows 
waving  and  tossing,  till  the  room  seemed  full  of  men  who 
battled  silently. 

On  retiring  to  bed,  the  father  would  come  into  the  sick- 
room. He  was  always  very  gentle  if  anyone  were  ill. 
But  he  disturbed  the  atmosphere  for  the  boy. 

"  Are  ter  asleep,  my  darlin'  ?  "  Morel  asked  softly. 

"  No;   is  my  mother  comin'?  " 

"  She  's  just  fmishin'  foldin'  the  clothes.  Do  you  want 
anything?  "  Morel  rarely  "  thee'd  "  his  son. 


The  Young  Life  of  Paul  85 

"  I  don't  want  nothing.     But  how  long  will  she  be?  " 

"  Not  long,  my  duckie." 

The  father  waited  undecidedly  on  the  hearthrug  for  a 
moment  or  two.  He  felt  his  son  did  not  want  him.  Then 
he  went  to  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  said  to  his  wife: 

"  This  childt  's  axin'  for  thee ;  how  long  art  goin'  to 
be?" 

"  Until  I  've  finished,  good  gracious !  Tell  him  to  go  to 
sleep." 

"  She  says  you  're  to  go  to  sleep,"  the  father  repeated 
gently  to  Paul. 

"  Well,  I  want  her  to  come,"  insisted  the  boy. 

"  He  says  he  can't  go  off  till  you  come,"  Morel  called 
downstairs. 

"  Eh,  dear !  I  shan't  be  long.  And  do  stop  shouting 
downstairs.  There  's  the  other  children  —  " 

Then  Morel  came  again,  and  crouched  before  the  bed- 
room fire.  He  loved  a  fire  dearly. 

"  She  says  she  won't  be  long,"  he  said. 

He  loitered  about  indefinitely.  The  boy  began  to  get 
feverish  with  irritation.  His  father's  presence  seemed  to 
aggravate  all  his  sick  impatience.  At  last  Morel,  after 
having  stood  looking  at  his  son  awhile,  said  softly : 

"  Good-night,  my  darling." 

"  Good-night,"  Paul  replied,  turning  round  in  relief  to 
be  alone. 

Paul  loved  to  sleep  with  his  mother.  Sleep  is  still  most 
perfect,  in  spite  of  hygienists,  when  it  is  shared  with  a 
beloved.  The  warmth,  the  security  and  peace  of  soul,  the 
utter  comfort  from  the  touch  of  the  other,  knits  the  sleep, 
so  that  it  takes  the  body  and  soul  completely  in  its  heal- 
ing. Paul  lay  against  her  and  slept,  and  got  better; 
whilst  she,  always  a  bad  sleeper,  fell  later  on  into  a  pro- 
found sleep  that  seemed  to  give  her  faith. 

In  convalescence  he  would  sit  up  in  bed,  see  the  fluffy 
horses  feeding  at  the  troughs  in  the  field,  scattering  their 
hay  on  the  trodden  yellow  snow;  watch  the  miners  troop 
home  —  small,  black  figures  trailing  slowly  in  gangs  across 


86  Sons  and  Lovers 

the  white  field.  Then  the  night  came  up  in  dark  blue 
vapour  from  the  snow. 

In  convalescence  everything  was  wonderful.  The  snow- 
flakes,  suddenly  arriving  on  the  window-pane,  clung  there 
a  moment  like  swallows,  then  were  gone,  and  a  drop  of 
water  was  crawling  down  the  glass.  The  snowflakes 
whirled  round  the  corner  of  the  house,  like  pigeons  dash- 
ing by.  Away  across  the  valley  the  little  black  train 
crawled  doubtfully  over  the  great  whiteness. 

While  they  were  so  poor,  the  children  were  delighted 
if  they  could  do  anything  to  help  economically.  Annie 
and  Paul  and  Arthur  went  out  early  in  the  morning,  in 
summer,  looking  for  mushrooms,  hunting  through  the  wet 
grass,  from  which  the  larks  were  rising,  for  the  white- 
skinned,  wonderful  naked  bodies  crouched  secretly  in  the 
green.  And  if  they  got  half  a  pound  they  felt  exceed- 
ingly happy:  there  was  the  joy  of  finding  something, 
the  joy  of  accepting  something  straight  from  the  hand 
of  Nature,  and  the  joy  of  contributing  to  the  family 
exchequer. 

But  the  most  important  harvest,  after  gleaning  for 
frumenty,  was  the  blackberries.  Mrs.  Morel  must  buy 
fruit  for  puddings  on  the  Saturdays;  also  she  liked 
blackberries.  So  Paul  and  Arthur  scoured  the  coppices 
and  woods  and  old  quarries,  so  long  as  a  blackberry  was 
to  be  found,  every  week-end  going  on  their  search.  In 
that  region  of  mining  villages  blackberries  became  a  com- 
parative rarity.  But  Paul  hunted  far  and  wide.  He 
loved  being  out  in  the  country,  among  the  bushes.  But 
he  also  could  not  bear  to  go  home  to  his  mother  empty. 
That,  he  felt,  would  disappoint  her,  and  he  would  have 
died  rather. 

"  Good  gracious !  "  she  would  exclaim  as  the  lads  came 
in,  late,  and  tired  to  death,  and  hungry,  "  wherever  have 
you  been?  " 

"  Well,"  replied  Paul,  "  there  was  n't  any,  so  we  went 
over  Misk  Hills.  And  look  here,  our  mother !  " 

She  peeped  into  the  basket. 


The  Young  Life  of  Paul  87 

"  Now,  those  are  fine  ones !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  And  there  's  over  two  pounds  —  is  n't  there  over  two 
pounds  ?  " 

She  tried  the  basket. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  doubtfully. 

Then  Paul  fished  out  a  little  spray.  He  always  brought 
her  one  spray,  the  best  he  could  find. 

"  Pretty !  "  she  said,  in  a  curious  tone,  of  a  woman 
accepting  a  love-token. 

The  boy  walked  all  day,  went  miles  and  miles,  rather 
than  own  himself  beaten  and  come  home  to  her  empty- 
handed.  She  never  realized  this,  whilst  he  was  young. 
She  was  a  woman  who  waited  for  her  children  to  grow 
up.  And  William  occupied  her  chiefly. 

But  when  William  went  to  Nottingham,  and  was  not  so 
much  at  home,  the  mother  made  a  companion  of  Paul. 
The  latter  was  unconsciously  jealous  of  his  brother,  and 
William  was  jealous  of  him.  At  the  same  time,  they  were 
good  friends. 

Mrs.  Morel's  intimacy  with  her  second  son  was  more 
subtle  and  fine,  perhaps  not  so  passionate  as  with  her 
eldest.  It  was  the  rule  that  Paul  should  fetch  the  money 
on  Friday  afternoons.  The  colliers  of  the  five  pits  were 
paid  on  Fridays,  but  not  individually.  All  the  earnings 
of  each  stall  were  put  down  to  the  chief  butty,  as  con- 
tractor, and  he  divided  the  wages  again,  either  in  the 
public-house  or  in  his  own  home.  So  that  the  children 
could  fetch  the  money,  school  closed  early  on  Friday 
afternoons.  Each  of  the  Morel  children  —  William,  then 
Annie,  then  Paul  —  had  fetched  the  money  on  Friday 
afternoons,  until  they  went  themselves  to  work.  Paul  used 
to  set  off  at  half-past  three,  with  a  little  calico  bag  in 
his  pocket.  Down  all  the  paths,  women,  girls,  children, 
and  men  were  seen  trooping  to  the  offices. 

These  offices  were  quite  handsome:  a  new,  red-brick 
building,  almost  like  a  mansion,  standing  in  its  own  well- 
kept  grounds  at  the  end  of  Greenhill  Lane.  The  waiting- 
room  was  the  hall,  a  long,  bare  room  paved  with  blue  brick, 


88  Sons  and  Lovers 

and  having  a  seat  all  round,  against  the  wall.  Here  sat 
the  colliers  in  their  pit-dirt.  They  had  come  up  early. 
The  women  and  children  usually  loitered  about  on  the  red 
gravel  paths.  Paul  always  examined  the  grass  border, 
and  the  big  grass  bank,  because  in  it  grew  tiny  pansies 
and  tiny  forget-me-nots.  There  was  a  sound  of  many 
voices.  The  women  had  on  their  Sunday  hats.  The  girls 
chattered  loudly.  Little  dogs  ran  here  and  there.  The 
green  shrubs  were  silent  all  around. 

Then  from  inside  came  the  cry  "  Spinney  Park  — 
Spinney  Park."  All  the  folk  for  Spinney  Park  trooped 
inside.  When  it  was  time  for  Bretty  to  be  paid,  Paul 
went  in  among  the  crowd.  The  pay-room  was  quite  small. 
A  counter  went  across,  dividing  it  into  half.  Behind  the 
counter  stood  two  men  —  Mr.  Braithwaite  and  his  clerk, 
Mr.  Winterbottom.  Mr.  Braithwaite  was  large,  somewhat 
of  the  stern  patriarch  in  appearance,  having  a  rather 
thin  white  beard.  He  was  usually  muffled  in  an  enormous 
silk  neckerchief,  and  right  up  to  the  hot  summer  a  huge 
fire  burned  in  the  open  grate.  No  window  was  open. 
Sometimes  in  winter  the  air  scorched  the  throats  of  the 
people,  coming  in  from  the  freshness.  Mr.  Winterbottom 
was  rather  small  and  fat,  and  very  bald.  He  made  re- 
marks that  were  not  witty,  whilst  his  chief  launched  forth 
patriarchal  admonitions  against  the  colliers. 

The  room  was  crowded  with  miners  in  their  pit-dirt, 
men  who  had  been  home  and  changed,  and  women,  and  one 
or  two  children,  and  usually  a  dog.  Paul  was  quite  small, 
so  it  was  often  his  fate  to  be  jammed  behind  the  legs  of 
the  men,  near  the  fire  which  scorched  him.  He  knew  the 
order  of  the  names  —  they  went  according  to  stall 
number. 

"  Holliday,"  came  the  ringing  voice  of  Mr.  Braithwaite. 
Then  Mrs.  Holliday  stepped  silently  forward,  was  paid, 
drew  aside. 

"  Bower  —  John  Bower." 

A  boy  stepped  to  the  counter.  Mr.  Braithwaite,  large 
and  irascible,  glowered  at  him  over  his  spectacles. 


The  Young  Life  of  Paul  89 

"  John  Bower !  "  he  repeated. 

"  It 's  me,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Why,  you  used  to  'ave  a  different  nose  than  that," 
said  glossy  Mr.  Winterbottom,  peering  over  the  counter. 
The  people  tittered,  thinking  of  John  Bower  senior. 

"  How  is  it  your  father  's  not  come?  "  said  Mr.  Braith- 
waite,  in  a  large  and  magisterial  voice. 

"  He  's  badly,"  piped  the  boy. 

"  You  should  tell  him  to  keep  off  the  drink,"  pronounced 
the  great  cashier. 

"  An'  niver  mind  if  he  puts  his  foot  through  yer,"  said 
a  mocking  voice  from  behind. 

All  the  men  laughed.  The  large  and  important  cashier 
looked  down  at  his  next  sheet. 

"  Fred  Pilkington !  "  he  called,  quite  indifferent. 

Mr.  Braithwaite  was  an  important  shareholder  in  the 
firm. 

Paul  knew  his  turn  was  next  but  one,  and  his  heart  be- 
gan to  beat.  He  was  pushed  against  the  chimney-piece. 
His  calves  were  burning.  But  he  did  not  hope  to  get 
through  the  wall  of  men. 

"  Walter  Morel !  "  came  the  ringing  voice. 

"  Here !  "  piped  Paul,  small  and  inadequate. 

"  Morel  —  Walter  Morel !  "  the  cashier  repeated,  his 
finger  and  thumb  on  the  invoice,  ready  to  pass  on. 

Paul  was  suffering  convulsions  of  self-consciousness, 
and  could  not  or  would  not  shout.  The  backs  of  the  men 
obliterated  him.  Then  Mr.  Winterbottom  came  to  the 
rescue. 

"He's  here.    Where  is  he?    Morel's  lad?" 

The  fat,  red,  bald  little  man  peered  round  with  keen 
eyes.  He  pointed  at  the  fireplace.  The  colliers  looked 
round,  moved  aside,  and  disclosed  the  boy. 

"  Here  he  is !  "  said  Mr.  Winterbottom. 

Paul  went  to  the  counter. 

"  Seventeen  pounds  eleven  and  fivepence.  Why  don't 
you  shout  up  when  you  're  called?  "  said  Mr.  Braithwaite. 
He  banged  on  to  the  invoice  a  five-pound  bag  of  silver, 


90  Sons  and  Lovers 

then,  in  a  delicate  and  pretty  movement,  picked  up  a 
little  ten-pound  column  of  gold,  and  plumped  it  beside  the 
silver.  The  gold  slid  in  a  bright  stream  over  the  paper. 
The  cashier  finished  counting  off  the  money;  the  boy 
dragged  the  whole  down  the  counter  to  Mr.  Winterbottom, 
to  whom  the  stoppages  for  rent  and  tools  must  be  paid. 
Here  he  suffered  again. 

"  Sixteen  an'  six,"  said  Mr.  Winterbottom. 

The  lad  was  too  much  upset  to  count.  He  pushed 
forward  some  loose  silver  and  half  a  sovereign. 

"  How  much  do  you  think  you  've  given  me?  "  asked 
Mr.  Winterbottom. 

The  boy  looked  at  him,  but  said  nothing.  He  had  not 
the  faintest  notion. 

"Haven't  you  got  a  tongue  in  your  head?" 

Paul  bit  his  lip,  and  pushed  forward  some  more  silver. 

"  Don't  they  teach  you  to  count  at  the  Board-school?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Nowt  but  Algibbra  an'  French,"  said  a  collier. 

"  An'  cheek  an'  impidence,"  said  another. 

Paul  was  keeping  someone  waiting.  With  trembling 
fingers  he  got  his  money  into  the  bag  and  slid  out.  He 
suffered  the  tortures  of  the  damned  on  these  occasions. 

His  relief,  when  he  got  outside,  and  was  walking  along 
the  Mansfield  Road,  was  infinite.  On  the  park  wall  the 
mosses  were  green.  There  were  some  gold  and  some  white 
fowls  pecking  under  the  apple-trees  of  an  orchard.  The 
colliers  were  walking  home  in  a  stream.  The  boy  went 
near  the  wall,  self-consciously.  He  knew  many  of  the  men, 
but  could  not  recognize  them  in  their  dirt.  And  this  was 
a  new  torture  to  him. 

When  he  got  down  to  the  New  Inn,  at  Bretty,  his  father 
was  not  yet  come.  Mrs.  Wharmby,  the  landlady,  knew 
him.  His  grandmother,  Morel's  mother,  had  been  Mrs. 
Wharmby's  friend. 

"  Your  father  's  not  come  yet,"  said  the  landlady,  in  the 
peculiar  half-scornful,  half-patronizing  voice  of  a  woman 
who  talks  chiefly  to  grown  men.  "  Sit  you  down." 


The  Young  Life  of  Paul  91 

Paul  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bench  in  the  bar. 
Some  colliers  were  "  reckoning "  —  sharing  out  their 
money  —  in  a  corner ;  others  came  in.  They  all  glanced 
at  the  boy  without  speaking.  At  last  Morel  came ;  brisk, 
and  with  something  of  an  air,  even  in  his  blackness. 

"  Hello !  "  he  said  rather  tenderly  to  his  son.  "  Have 
you  bested  me?  Shall  you  have  a  drink  of  something?  " 

Paul  and  all  the  children  were  bred  up  fierce  anti- 
alcoholists ;  and  he  would  have  suffered  more  in  drinking 
a  lemonade  before  all  the  men  than  in  having  a  tooth 
drawn. 

The  landlady  looked  at  him  de  haut  en  bas9  rather 
pitying,  and  at  the  same  time  resenting  his  clear,  fierce 
morality.  Paul  went  home,  glowering.  He  entered  the 
house  silently.  Friday  was  baking  day,  and  there  was 
usually  a  hot  bun.  His  mother  put  it  before  him. 

Suddenly  he  turned  on  her  in  a  fury,  his  eyes  flashing: 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  the  office  any  more,"  he  said. 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter?  "  his  mother  asked  in  sur- 
prise. His  sudden  rages  rather  amused  her. 

"  I  'm  not  going  any  more,"  he  declared. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  tell  your  father  so." 

He  chewed  his  bun  as  if  he  hated  it. 

"  I  'm  not  —  I  'm  not  going  to  fetch  the  money." 

"  Then  one  of  Carlin's  children  can  go ;  they  'd  be  glad 
enough  of  the  sixpence,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

This  sixpence  was  Paul's  only  income.  It  mostly  went 
in  buying  birthday  presents ;  but  it  was  an  income,  and  he 
treasured  it.  But  — 

"  They  can  have  it,  then !  "  he  said.  "  I  don't  want 
it." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  his  mother.  "  But  you  need  n't 
bully  me  about  it." 

"  They  're  hateful,  and  common,  and  hateful,  they  are, 
and  I  'm  not  going  any  more.  Mr.  Braithwaite  drops  his 
*  h's,'  an'  Mr.  Winterbottom  says  *  You  was.'  " 

"  And  is  that  why  you  won't  go  any  more?  "  smiled  Mrs. 
Morel. 


92  Sons  and  Lovers 

The  boy  was  silent  for  some  time.  His  face  was  pale, 
his  eyes  dark  and  furious.  His  mother  moved  about  at 
her  work,  taking  no  notice  of  him. 

"  They  always  stan'  in  front  of  me,  so  's  I  can't  get 
out,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  my  lad,  you  've  only  to  ask  them,"  she  replied. 

"  An5  then  Alfred  Winterbottom  says,  '  What  do  they 
teach  you  at  the  Board-school?  ' 

"  They  never  taught  him  much,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "  that 
is  a  fact  —  neither  manners  nor  wit  —  and  his  cunning 
he  was  born  with." 

So,  in  her  own  way,  she  soothed  him.  His  ridiculous 
hypersensitiveness  made  her  heart  ache.  And  sometimes 
the  fury  in  his  eyes  roused  her,  made  her  sleeping  soul  lift 
up  its  head  a  moment,  surprised. 

"  What  was  the  cheque?  "  she  asked. 

"  Seventeen  pounds  eleven  and  fivepence,  and  sixteen  and 
six  stoppages,"  replied  the  boy.  "  It  's  a  good  week ;  and 
only  five  shillings  stoppages  for  my  father." 

So  she  was  able  to  calculate  how  much  her  husband 
had  earned,  and  could  call  him  to  account  if  he  gave  her 
short  money.  Morel  always  kept  to  himself  the  secret 
of  the  week's  amount. 

Friday  was  the  baking  night  and  market  night.  It  was 
the  rule  that  Paul  should  stay  at  home  and  bake.  He 
loved  to  stop  in  and  draw  or  read;  he  was  very  fond  of 
drawing.  Annie  always  "  gallivanted  "  on  Friday  nights ; 
Arthur  was  enjoying  himself  as  usual.  So  the  boy  re- 
mained alone. 

Mrs.  Morel  loved  her  marketing.  In  the  tiny  market- 
place on  the  top  of  the  hill,  where  four  roads,  from 
Nottingham  and  Derby,  Ilkeston  and  Mansfield,  meet, 
many  stalls  were  erected.  Brakes  ran  in  from  surround- 
ing villages.  The  market-place  was  full  of  women,  the 
streets  packed  with  men.  It  was  amazing  to  see  so  many 
men  everywhere  in  the  streets.  Mrs.  Morel  usually  quar- 
relled with  her  lace  woman,  sympathized  with  her  fruit  man 
—  who  was  a  gabey,  but  his  wife  was  a  bad  un  —  laughed 


The  Young  Life  of  Paul  93 

with  the  fish  man  —  who  was  a  scamp  but  so  droll  —  put 
the  linoleum  man  in  his  place,  was  cold  with  the  odd- 
wares  man,  and  only  went  to  the  crockery  man  when 
she  was  driven  —  or  drawn  by  the  cornflowers  on  a  little 
dish;  then  she  was  coldly  polite. 

"  I  wondered  how  much  that  little  dish  was,"  she  said. 

"  Sevenpence  to  you." 

"  Thank  you." 

She  put  the  dish  down  and  walked  away ;  but  she  could 
not  leave  the  market-place  without  it.  Again  she  went 
by  where  the  pots  lay  coldly  on  the  floor,  and  she  glanced 
at  the  dish  furtively,  pretending  not  to. 

She  was  a  little  woman,  in  a  bonnet  and  a  black  cos- 
tume. Her  bonnet  was  in  its  third  year;  it  was  a  great 
grievance  to  Annie. 

"  Mother !  "  the  girl  implored,  "  don't  wear  that  nubbly 
little  bonnet." 

"  Then  what  else  shall  I  wear  ?  "  replied  the  mother 
tartly.  "  And  I  'm  sure  it 's  right  enough." 

It  had  started  with  a  tip ;  then  had  had  flowers ;  now 
was  reduced  to  black  lace  and  a  bit  of  jet. 

"  It  looks  rather  come  down,"  said  Paul.  "  Could  n't 
you  give  it  a  pick-me-up?  " 

"  I  '11  jowl  your  head  for  impudence,"  said  Mrs.  Morel, 
and  she  tied  the  strings  of  the  black  bonnet  valiantly 
under  her  chin. 

She  glanced  at  the  dish  again.  Both  she  and  her 
enemy,  the  pot  man,  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling,  as  if 
there  were  something  between  them.  Suddenly  he  shouted : 

"  Do  you  want  it  for  fivepence  ?  " 

She  started.  Her  heart  hardened ;  but  then  she  stooped 
and  took  up  the  dish. 

"  I  '11  have  it,"  she  said. 

"  Yer  '11  do  me  the  favour,  like?  "  he  said.  "  Yer  'd  bet- 
ter spit  in  it,  like  yer  do  when  y'ave  something  give  yer." 

Mrs.  Morel  paid  him  the  fivepence  in  a  cold  manner. 

"  I  don't  see  you  give  it  me,"  she  said.  "  You  would  n't 
let  me  have  it  for  fivepence  if  you  did  n't  want  to." 


94  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  In  this  flamin',  scrattlin'  place  you  may  count  yerself 
lucky  if  you  can  give  your  things  away,"  he  growled. 

"  Yes ;  there  are  bad  times,  and  good,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

But  she  had  forgiven  the  pot  man.  They  were  friends. 
She  dare  now  finger  his  pots.  So  she  was  happy. 

Paul  was  waiting  for  her.  He  loved  her  home-coming. 
She  was  always  her  best  so  —  triumphant,  tired,  laden 
with  parcels,  feeling  rich  in  spirit.  He  heard  her  quick, 
light  step  in  the  entry  and  looked  up  from  his  drawing. 

"  Oh !  "  she  sighed,  smiling  at  him  from  the  doorway. 

"  My  word,  you  are  loaded !  "  he  exclaimed,  putting 
down  his  brush. 

"  I  am !  "  she  gasped.  "  That  brazen  Annie  said  she  'd 
meet  me.  Such  a  weight !  " 

She  dropped  her  string  bag  and  her  packages  on  the 
table. 

"  Is  the  bread  done  ?  "  she  asked,  going  to  the  oven. 

"  The  last  one  is  soaking,"  he  replied.  "  You  need  n't 
look,  I  've  not  forgotten  it." 

"  Oh,  that  pot  man !  "  she  said,  closing  the  oven  door. 
"  You  know  what  a  wretch  I  've  said  he  was  ?  Well,  I 
don't  think  he  's  quite  so  bad." 

"Don't  you?" 

The  boy  was  attentive  to  her.  She  took  off  her  little 
black  bonnet. 

"  No.  I  think  he  can't  make  any  money  —  well,  it's 
everybody's  cry  alike  nowadays  —  and  it  makes  him  dis- 
agreeable." 

"  It  would  me,"  said  Paul. 

"  Well,  one  can't  wonder  at  it.  And  he  let  me  have  — 
how  much  do  you  think  he  let  me  have  this  for?  " 

She  took  the  dish  out  of  its  rag  of  newspaper,  and  stood 
looking  on  it  with  joy. 

"  Show  me !  "  said  Paul. 

The  two  stood  together  gloating  over  the  dish. 

"  I  love  cornflowers  on  things,"  said  Paul. 

"  Yes,  and  I  thought  of  the  teapot  you  bought  me  —  " 

"  One  and  three,"  said  Paul. 


The  Young  Life  of  Paul  95 

"  Fivepence !  " 

"  It 's  not  enough,  mother." 

"  No.  Do  you  know,  I  fairly  sneaked  off  with  it.  But 
I  'd  been  extravagant,  I  could  n't  afford  any  more.  And 
he  need  n't  have  let  me  have  it  if  he  had  n't  wanted  to." 

"  No,  he  needn't,  need  he?"  said  Paul,  and  the  two 
comforted  each  other  from  the  fear  of  having  robbed  the 
pot  man. 

"  We  c'n  have  stewed  fruit  in  it,"  said  Paul. 

"  Or  custard,  or  a  jelly,"  said  his  mother. 

"  Or  radishes  and  lettuce,"  said  he. 

"  Don't  forget  that  bread,"  she  said,  her  voice  bright 
with  glee. 

Paul  looked  in  the  oven;   tapped  the  loaf  on  the  base. 

"  It 's  done,"  he  said,  giving  it  to  her. 

She  tapped  it  also. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  going  to  unpack  her  bag.  "  Oh,  and 
I  'm  a  wicked,  extravagant  woman.  I  know  I  s'll  come  to 
want." 

He  hopped  to  her  side  eagerly,  to  see  her  latest  ex- 
travagance. She  unfolded  another  lump  of  newspaper 
and  disclosed  some  roots  of  pansies  and  of  crimson  daisies. 

"  Four  penn'orth !  "  she  moaned. 

"  How  cheap!  "  he  cried. 

"  Yes,  but  I  could  n't  afford  it  this  week  of  all  weeks." 

"  But  lovely !  "  he  cried. 

"  Are  n't  they !  "  she  exclaimed,  giving  way  to  pure  joy. 
"  Paul,  look  at  this  yellow  one,  is  n't  it  —  and  a  face  just 
like  an  old  man !  " 

"  Just !  "  cried  Paul,  stooping  to  sniff.  "  And  smells 
that  nice !  But  he  's  a  bit  splashed." 

He  ran  in  the  scullery,  came  back  with  the  flannel,  and 
carefully  washed  the  pansy. 

"  Now  look  at  him  now  he  's  wet !  "  he  said. 

"  Yes !  "  she  exclaimed,  brimful  of  satisfaction. 

The  children  of  Scargill  Street  felt  quite  select.  At 
the  end  where  the  Morels  lived  there  were  not  many  young 
things.  So  the  few  were  more  united.  Boys  and  girls 


96  Sons  and  Lovers 

played  together,  the  girls  joining  in  the  fights  and  the 
rough  games,  the  boys  taking  part  in  the  dancing  games 
and  rings  and  make-belief  of  the  girls. 

Annie  and  Paul  and  Arthur  loved  the  winter  evenings, 
when  it  was  not  wet.  They  stayed  indoors  till  the  colliers 
were  all  gone  home,  till  it  was  thick  dark,  and  the  street 
would  be  deserted.  Then  they  tied  their  scarves  round 
their  necks,  for  they  scorned  overcoats,  as  all  the  colliers' 
children  did,  and  went  out.  The  entry  was  very  dark,  and 
at  the  end  the  whole  great  night  opened  out,  in  a  hollow, 
with  a  little  tangle  of  lights  below  where  Minton  pit  lay, 
and  another  far  away  opposite  for  Selby.  The  farthest 
tiny  lights  seemed  to  stretch  out  the  darkness  for  ever. 
The  children  looked  anxiously  down  the  road  at  the  one 
lamp-post,  which  stood  at  the  end  of  the  field  path.  If 
the  little,  luminous  space  were  deserted,  the  two  boys  felt 
genuine  desolation.  They  stood  with  their  hands  in  their 
pockets  under  the  lamp,  turning  their  backs  on  the  night, 
quite  miserable,  watching  the  dark  houses.  Suddenly 
a  pinafore  under  a  short  coat  was  seen,  and  a  long-legged 
girl  came  flying  up. 

"Where's  Billy  Pillins  an'  your  Annie  an'  Eddie 
Dakin?" 

"I  don't  know." 

But  it  did  not  matter  so  much  —  there  were  three 
now.  They  set  up  a  game  round  the  lamp-post,  till  the 
others  rushed  up,  yelling.  Then  the  play  went  fast  and 
furious. 

There  was  only  this  one  lamp-post.  Behind  was  the 
great  scoop  of  darkness,  as  if  all  the  night  were  there. 
In  front,  another  wide,  dark  way  opened  over  the  hill 
brow.  Occasionally  somebody  came  out  of  this  way  and 
went  into  the  field  down  the  path.  In  a  dozen  yards  the 
night  had  swallowed  them.  The  children  played  on. 

They  were  brought  exceedingly  close  together,  owing  to 
their  isolation.     If  a  quarrel  took  place,  the  whole  play 
was  spoilt.     Arthur  was  very  touchy,  and  Billy  Pillins  — 
really  Philips  —  was  worse.     Then  Paul  had  to  side  with 


The  Young  Life  of  Paul  97 

Arthur,  and  on  Paul's  side  went  Alice,  while  Billy  Pillins 
always  had  Emmie  Limb  and  Eddie  Dakin  to  back  him 
up.  Then  the  six  would  fight,  hate  with  a  fury  of  hatred, 
and  flee  home  in  terror.  Paul  never  forgot,  after  one  of 
these  fierce  internecine  fights,  seeing  a  big  red  moon  lift 
itself  up,  slowly,  between  the  waste  road  over  the  hill-top, 
steadily,  like  a  great  bird.  And  he  thought  of  the  Bible, 
that  the  moon  should  be  turned  to  blood.  And  the  next 
day  he  made  haste  to  be  friends  with  Billy  Pillins.  And 
then  the  wild,  intense  games  went  on  again  under  the 
lamp-post,  surrounded  by  so  much  darkness.  Mrs.  Morel, 
going  into  her  parlour,  would  hear  the  children  singing 
away: 

"  My  shoes  are  made  of  Spanish  leather, 

My  socks  are  made  of  silk; 
I  wear  a  ring  on  every  finger, 
I  wash  myself  in  milk." 

They  sounded  so  perfectly  absorbed  in  the  game  as 
their  voices  came  out  of  the  night,  that  they  had  the  feel 
of  wild  creatures  singing.  It  stirred  the  mother;  and 
she  understood  when  they  came  in  at  eight  o'clock,  ruddy, 
with  brilliant  eyes,  and  quick,  passionate  speech. 

They  all  loved  the  Scargill  Street  house  for  its  open- 
ness, for  the  great  scallop  of  the  world  it  had  in  view. 
On  summer  evenings  the  women  would  stand  against  the 
field  fence,  gossiping,  facing  the  west,  watching  the  sun- 
sets flare  quickly  out,  till  the  Derbyshire  hills  ridged 
across  the  crimson  far  away,  like  the  black  crest  of  a 
newt. 

In  this  summer  season  the  pits  never  turned  full  time, 
particularly  the  soft  coal.  Mrs.  Dakin,  who  lived  next 
door  to  Mrs.  Morel,  going  to  the  field  fence  to  shake  her 
hearthrug,  would  spy  men  coming  slowly  up  the  hill. 
She  saw  at  once  they  were  colliers.  Then  she  waited,  a 
tall,  thin  shrew-faced  woman,  standing  on  the  hill  brow, 
almost  like  a  menace  to  the  poor  colliers  who  were  toiling 
up.  It  was  only  eleven  o'clock.  From  the  far-off  wooded 
hills  the  haze  that  hangs  like  fine  black  crape  at  the  back 


98  Sons  and  Lovers 

of  a  summer  morning  had  not  yet  dissipated.  The  first 
man  came  to  the  stile.  "  Chock-chock !  "  went  the  gate 
under  his  thrust. 

"  What,  han'  yer  knocked  off?  "  cried  Mrs.  Dakin. 

"  We  han,  missis." 

"  It 's  a  pity  as  they  letn  yer  goo,"  she  said  sarcas- 
tically. 

"  It  is  that,"  replied  the  man. 

"  Nay,  you  know  you  're  flig  to  come  up  again,"  she 
said. 

And  the  man  went  on.  Mrs.  Dakin,  going  up  her  yard, 
spied  Mrs.  Morel  taking  the  ashes  to  the  ash-pit. 

"  I  reckon  Minton  's  knocked  off,  missis,"  she  cried. 

"  Is  n't  it  sickenin' !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Morel  in  wrath. 

"  Ha !    But  I  'n  just  seed  Jont  Hutchby." 

"  They  might  as  well  have  saved  their  shoe-leather," 
said  Mrs.  Morel.  And  both  women  went  indoors,  dis- 
gusted. 

The  colliers,  their  faces  scarcely  blackened,  were  troop- 
ing home  again.  Morel  hated  to  go  back.  He  loved  the 
sunny  morning.  But  he  had  gone  to  pit  to  work,  and  to 
be  sent  home  again  spoilt  his  temper. 

"  Good  gracious,  at  this  time !  "  exclaimed  his  wife,  as 
he  entered. 

"  Can  I  help  it,  woman  ?  "  he  shouted. 

"  And  I  've  not  done  half  enough  dinner." 

"  Then  I  '11  eat  my  bit  o'  snap  as  I  took  with  me," 
he  bawled  pathetically.  He  felt  ignominious  and  sore. 

And  the  children,  coming  home  from  school,  would 
wonder  to  see  their  father  eating  with  his  dinner  the  two 
thick  slices  of  rather  dry  and  dirty  bread-and-butter  that 
had  been  to  pit  and  back. 

"What's  my  dad  eating  his  snap  for  now?"  asked 
Arthur. 

"  I  should  ha'e  it  holled  at  me  if  I  didna,"  snorted 
Morel. 

"  What  a  story !  "  exclaimed  his  wife. 

"An'  is  it  goin'  to  be  wasted?"  said  Morel.     "I'm 


The  Young  Life  of  Paul  99 

not  such  a  extravagant  mortal  as  you  lot,  with  your 
waste.  If  I  drop  a  bit  of  bread  at  pit,  in  all  the  dust 
an'  dirt,  I  pick  it  up  an'  eat  it." 

"  The  mice  would  eat  it,"  said  Paul.  "  It  would  n't  be 
wasted." 

"Good  bread-an'-butter  *s  not  for  mice,  either,"  said 
Morel.  "  Dirty  or  not  dirty,  I  'd  eat  it  rather  than  it 
should  be  wasted." 

"  You  might  leave  it  for  the  mice  and  pay  for  it  out 
of  your  next  pint,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"Oh,  might  I?"  he  exclaimed. 

They  were  very  poor  that  autumn.  William  had  just 
gone  away  to  London,  and  his  mother  missed  his  money. 
He  sent  ten  shillings  once  or  twice,  but  he  had  many 
things  to  pay  for  at  first.  His  letters  came  regularly 
once  a  week.  He  wrote  a  good  deal  to  his  mother,  telling 
her  all  his  life,  how  he  made  friends,  and  was  exchanging 
lessons  with  a  Frenchman,  how  he  enjoyed  London.  His 
mother  felt  again  he  was  remaining  to  her  just  as  when 
he  was  at  home.  She  wrote  to  him  every  week  her  direct, 
rather  witty  letters.  All  day  long,  as  she  cleaned  the 
house,  she  thought  of  him.  He  was  in  London :  he  would 
do  well.  Almost,  he  was  like  her  knight  who  wore  her 
favour  in  the  battle. 

He  was  coming  at  Christmas  for  five  days.  There  had 
never  been  such  preparations.  Paul  and  Arthur  scoured 
the  land  for  holly  and  evergreens.  Annie  made  the  pretty 
paper  hoops  in  the  old-fashioned  way.  And  there  was 
unheard-of  extravagance  in  the  larder.  Mrs.  Morel  made 
a  big  and  magnificent  cake.  Then,  feeling  queenly,  she 
showed  Paul  how  to  blanch  almonds.  He  skinned  the  long 
nuts  reverently,  counting  them  all,  to  see  not  one  was  lost. 
It  was  said  that  eggs  whisked  better  in  a  cold  place.  So 
the  boy  stood  in  the  scullery,  where  the  temperature  was 
nearly  at  freezing-point,  and  whisked  and  whisked,  and 
flew  in  excitement  to  his  mother  as  the  white  of  egg  grew 
stiffer  and  more  snowy. 

"  Just  look,  mother !    Is  n't  it  lovely?  " 


100  Sons  and  Lovers 

And  he  balanced  a  bit  on  his  nose,  then  blew  it  in  the 
air. 

"  Now,  don't  waste  it,"  said  the  mother. 

Everybody  was  mad  with  excitement.  William  was  com- 
ing on  Christmas  Eve.  Mrs.  Morel  surveyed  her  pantry. 
There  was  a  big  plum  cake,  and  a  rice  cake,  jam  tarts, 
lemon  tarts,  and  mince-pies  —  two  enormous  dishes.  She 
was  finishing  cooking  —  Spanish  tarts  and  cheese-cakes. 
Everywhere  was  decorated.  The  kissing-bunch  of  berried 
holly  hung  with  bright  and  glittering  things,  spun  slowly 
over  Mrs.  Morel's  head  as  she  trimmed  her  little  tarts 
in  the  kitchen.  A  great  fire  roared.  There  was  a  scent 
of  cooked  pastry.  He  was  due  at  seven  o'clock,  but  he 
would  be  late.  The  three  children  had  gone  to  meet  him. 
She  was  alone.  But  at  a  quarter  to  seven  Morel  came 
in  again.  Neither  wife  nor  husband  spoke.  He  sat  in  his 
armchair,  quite  awkward  with  excitement,  and  she  quietly 
went  on  with  her  baking.  Only  by  the  careful  way  in 
which  she  did  things  could  it  be  told  how  much  moved  she 
was.  The  clock  ticked  on. 

"  What  time  dost  say  he  's  coming?  "  Morel  asked  for 
the  fifth  time. 

"  The  train  gets  in  at  half-past  six,"  she  replied 
emphatically. 

"  Then  he  '11  be  here  at  ten  past  seven." 

"  Eh,  bless  you,  it  '11  be  hours  late  on  the  Midland,"  she 
said  indifferently.  But  she  hoped,  by  expecting  him  late, 
to  bring  him  early.  Morel  went  down  the  entry  to  look 
for  him.  Then  he  came  back. 

"  Goodness,  man !  "  she  said.  "  You  're  like  an  ill-sitting 
hen." 

"  Hadna  you  better  be  gettin'  him  summat  t'  eat 
ready?  "  asked  the  father. 

"  There  's  plenty  of  time,"  she  answered. 

"  There  's  not  so  much  as  /  can  see  on,"  he  answered, 
turning  crossly  in  his  chair.  She  began  to  clear  her 
table.  The  kettle  was  singing.  They  waited  and  waited. 

Meantime  the  three  children  were  on  the  platform  at 


The  Young  Life  of  Paul  101 

Sethley  Bridge,  on  the  Midland  main  line,  two  miles  from 
home.  They  waited  one  hour.  A  train  came  —  he  was 
not  there.  Down  the  line  the  red  and  green  lights  shone. 
It  was  very  dark  and  very  cold. 

"  Ask  him  if  the  London  train  's  come,"  said  Paul  to 
Annie,  when  they  saw  a  man  in  a  tip  cap. 

"  I  'm  not,"  said  Annie.  "  You  be  quiet  —  he  might 
send  us  off." 

But  Paul  was  dying  for  the  man  to  know  they  were 
expecting  someone  by  the  London  train:  it  sounded  so 
grand.  Yet  he  was  much  too  much  scared  of  broaching 
any  man,  let  alone  one  in  a  peaked  cap,  to  dare  to  ask. 
The  three  children  could  scarcely  go  into  the  waiting- 
room  for  fear  of  being  sent  away,  and  for  fear  something 
should  happen  whilst  they  were  off  the  platform.  Still 
they  waited  in  the  dark  and  cold. 

"  It 's  an  hour  an'  a  half  late,"  said  Arthur  pathetically. 

"  Well,"  said  Annie,  "  it 's  Christmas  Eve." 

They  all  grew  silent.  He  was  n't  coming.  They  looked 
down  the  darkness  of  the  railway.  There  was  London! 
It  seemed  the  uttermost  of  distance.  They  thought  any- 
thing might  happen  if  one  came  from  London.  They  were 
all  too  troubled  to  talk.  Cold,  and  unhappy,  and  silent, 
they  huddled  together  on  the  platform. 

At  last,  after  more  than  two  hours,  they  saw  the  lights 
of  an  engine  peering  round,  away  down  the  darkness.  A 
porter  ran  out.  The  children  drew  back  with  beating 
hearts.  A  great  train,  bound  for  Manchester,  drew  up. 
Two  doors  opened,  and  from  one  of  them,  William.  They 
flew  to  him.  He  handed  parcels  to  them  cheerily,  and  im- 
mediately began  to  explain  that  this  great  train  had 
stopped  for  his  sake  at  such  a  small  station  as  Sethley 
Bridge:  it  was  not  booked  to  stop. 

Meanwhile  the  parents  were  getting  anxious.  The  table 
was  set,  the  chop  was  cooked,  everything  was  ready.  Mrs. 
Morel  put  on  her  black  apron.  She  was  wearing  her  best 
dress.  Then  she  sat,  pretending  to  read.  The  minutes 
were  a  torture  to  her. 


102  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  H'm !  "  said  Morel.     "  It 's  an  hour  an'  a  ha'ef ." 

"  And  those  children  waiting !  "  she  said. 

"  Th'  train  canna  ha'  come  in  yit,"  he  said. 

"  I  tell  you,  on  Christmas  Eve  they  're  hours  wrong." 

They  were  both  a  bit  cross  with  each  other,  so  gnawed 
with  anxiety.  The  ash-tree  moaned  outside  in  a  cold,  raw 
wind.  And  all  that  space  of  night  from  London  home! 
Mrs.  Morel  suffered.  The  slight  click  of  the  works  in- 
side the  clock  irritated  her.  It  was  getting  so  late;  it 
was  getting  unbearable. 

At  last  there  was  a  sound  of  voices,  and  a  footstep  in  the 
entry. 

"  Ha  's  here!  "  cried  Morel,  jumping  up. 

Then  he  stood  back.  The  mother  ran  a  few  steps 
towards  the  door  and  waited.  There  was  a  rush  and  a 
patter  of  feet,  the  door  burst  open.  William  was  there. 
He  dropped  his  Gladstone  bag  and  took  his  mother  in  his 
arms. 

"Mater!  "he  said. 

"  My  boy !  "  she  cried. 

And  for  two  seconds,  no  longer,  she  clasped  him  and 
kissed  him.  Then  she  withdrew  and  said,  trying  to  be 
quite  normal: 

"  But  how  late  you  are !  " 

"  Are  n't  I !  "  he  cried  turning  to  his  father.  "  Well, 
dad!" 

The  two  men  shook  hands. 

"Well,  my  lad!" 

Morel's  eyes  were  wet. 

"  We  thought  tha  'd  niver  be  commin',"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  I  'd  come !  "  exclaimed  William. 

Then  the  son  turned  round  to  his  mother. 

"  But  you  look  well,"  she  said  proudly,  laughing. 

"  Well !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  should  think  so  —  coming 
home!" 

He  was  a  fine  fellow,  big,  straight,  and  fearless-looking. 
He  looked  round  at  the  evergreens  and  the  kissing  bunch, 
and  the  little  tarts  that  lay  in  their  tins  on  the  hearth. 


The  Young  Life  of  Paul  103 

"By  jove!  mother,  it's  not  different!  "  he  said,  as  if 
in  relief. 

Everybody  was  still  for  a  second.  Then  he  suddenly 
sprang  forward,  picked  a  tart  from  the  hearth,  and  pushed 
it  whole  into  his  mouth. 

"  Well,  did  iver  you  see  such  a  parish  oven !  "  the  father 
exclaimed. 

He  had  brought  them  endless  presents.  Every  penny  he 
had  he  had  spent  on  them.  There  was  a  sense  of  luxury 
overflowing  in  the  house.  For  his  mother  there  was  an 
umbrella  with  gold  on  the  pale  handle.  She  kept  it  to  her 
dying  day,  and  would  have  lost  anything  rather  than  that. 
Everybody  had  something  gorgeous,  and  besides,  there 
were  pounds  of  unknown  sweets :  Turkish  delight,  crystal- 
lized pineapple,  and  such-like  things  which,  the  children 
thought,  only  the  splendour  of  London  could  provide. 
And  Paul  boasted  of  these  sweets  among  his  friends. 

"  Real  pineapple,  cut  off  in  slices,  and  then  turned  into 
crystal  —  fair  grand !  " 

Everybody  was  mad  with  happiness  in  the  family. 
Home  was  home,  and  they  loved  it  with  a  passion  of  love, 
whatever  the  suffering  had  been.  There  were  parties,  there 
were  rejoicings.  People  came  in  to  see  William,  to  see 
what  difference  London  had  made  to  him.  And  they  all 
found  him  "  such  a  gentleman,  and  such  a  fine  fellow,  my 
word!" 

When  he  went  away  again  the  children  retired  to  vari- 
ous places  to  weep  alone.  Morel  went  to  bed  in  misery, 
and  Mrs.  Morel  felt  as  if  she  were  numbed  by  some 
drug,  as  if  her  feelings  were  paralyzed.  She  loved  him 
passionately. 

He  was  in  the  office  of  a  lawyer  connected  with  a  large 
shipping  firm,  and  at  the  midsummer  his  chief  offered  him 
a  trip  in  the  Mediterranean  on  one  of  the  boats,  for  quite 
a  small  cost.  Mrs.  Morel  wrote :  "  Go,  go,  my  boy.  You 
may  never  have  a  chance  again,  and  I  should  love  to  think 
of  you  cruising  there  in  the  Mediterranean  almost  better 
than  to  have  you  at  home."  But  William  came  home  for 


104  Sons  and  Lovers 

his  fortnight's  holiday.  Not  even  the  Mediterranean, 
which  pulled  at  all  his  young  man's  desire  to  travel,  and 
at  his  poor  man's  wonder  at  the  glamorous  south,  could 
take  him  away  when  he  might  come  home.  That  com- 
pensated his  mother  for  much. 


CHAPTER   V 

PAUL    LAUNCHES    INTO    LIFE 

"Jl/TOREL  was  rather  a  heedless  man,  careless  of  danger. 
IV JL  So  he  had  endless  accidents.  Now,  when  Mrs.  Morel 
heard  the  rattle  of  an  empty  coal-cart  cease  at  her  entry- 
end,  she  ran  into  the  parlour  to  look,  expecting  almost 
to  see  her  husband  seated  in  the  waggon,  his  face  grey 
under  his  dirt,  his  body  limp  and  sick  with  some  hurt  or 
other.  If  it  were  he,  she  would  run  out  to  help. 

About  a  year  after  William  went  to  London,  and  just 
after  Paul  had  left  school,  before  he  got  work,  Mrs.  Morel 
was  upstairs  and  her  son  was  painting  in  the  kitchen  — 
he  was  very  clever  with  his  brush  —  when  there  came  a 
knock  at  the  door.  Crossly  he  put  down  his  brush  to  go. 
At  the  same  moment  his  mother  opened  a  window  upstairs 
and  looked  down. 

A  pit-lad  in  his  dirt  stood  on  the  threshold. 

"Is  this  Walter  Morel's?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Morel.     "  What  is  it?  " 

But  she  had  guessed  already. 

"  Your  mester  's  got  hurt,"  he  said. 

"  Eh,  dear  me !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  It 's  a  wonder  if  he 
had  n't,  lad.  And  what 's  he  done  this  time?  " 

"  I  don't  know  for  sure,  but  it 's  'is  leg  somewhere. 
They  ta'ein'  'im  ter  th'  'ospital." 

"  Good  gracious  me !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Eh,  dear,  what 
a  one  he  is !  There  's  not  five  minutes  of  peace,  I  '11  be 
hanged  if  there  is  !  His  thumb  's  nearly  better,  and  now  — 
Did  you  see  him?  " 

"  I  seed  him  at  th'  bottom.  An'  I  seed  'em  bring  'im 
up  in  a  tub,  an'  'e  wor  in  a  dead  faint.  But  he  shouted 
like  anythink  when  Doctor  Fraser  examined  him  i'  th'  lamp 


106  Sons  and  Lovers 

cabin  —  an'  cossed  an'  swore,  an'  said  as  'e  wor  goin'  to 
be  ta'en  whoam  —  'e  wor  n't  goin'  ter  th'  'ospital." 

The  boy  faltered  to  an  end. 

"  He  would  want  to  come  home,  so  that  I  can  have  all 
the  bother.  Thank  you,  my  lad.  Eh,  dear,  if  I  'm  not  sick 
—  sick  and  surfeited,  I  am !  " 

She  came  downstairs.  Paul  had  mechanically  resumed 
his  painting. 

"  And  it  must  be  pretty  bad  if  they  've  taken  him  to 
the  hospital,"  she  went  on.  "  But  what  a  careless  creature 
he  is !  Other  men  don't  have  all  these  accidents.  Yes,  he 
would  want  to  put  all  the  burden  on  me.  Eh,  dear,  just 
as  we  were  getting  easy  a  bit  at  last.  Put  those  things 
away,  there  's  no  time  to  be  painting  now.  What  time  is 
there  a  train?  I  know  I  s'll  have  to  go  trailing  to  Keston. 
I  s'll  have  to  leave  that  bedroom." 

"  I  can  finish  it,"  said  Paul. 

"  You  need  n't.  I  shall  catch  the  seven  o'clock  back, 
I  should  think.  Oh,  my  blessed  heart,  the  fuss  and  com- 
motion he  '11  make !  And  those  granite  setts  at  Tinder 
Hill  —  he  might  well  call  them  kidney  pebbles  —  they  '11 
jolt  him  almost  to  bits.  I  wonder  why  they  can't  mend 
them,  the  state  they  're  in,  an'  all  the  men  as  go  across 
in  that  ambulance.  You  'd  think  they  'd  have  a  hospital 
here.  The  men  bought  the  ground,  and,  my  sirs,  there  'd 
be  accidents  enough  to  keep  it  going.  But  no,  they  must 
trail  them  ten  miles  in  a  slow  ambulance  to  Nottingham. 
It 's  a  crying  shame !  Oh,  and  the  fuss  he  '11  make !  I 
know  he  will !  I  wonder  who  's  with  him.  Barker,  I  s'd 
think.  Poor  beggar,  he  '11  wish  himself  anywhere  rather. 
But  he  '11  look  after  him,  I  know.  Now  there  's  no  telling 
how  long  he  '11  be  stuck  in  that  hospital  —  and  won't  he 
hate  it !  But  if  it 's  only  his  leg  it 's  not  so  bad." 

All  the  time  she  was  getting  ready.  Hurriedly  taking 
off  her  bodice,  she  crouched  at  the  boiler  while  the  water 
ran  slowly  into  her  lading-can. 

"  I  wish  this  boiler  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea !  "  she 
exclaimed,  wriggling  the  handle  impatiently.  She  had 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  107 

very  handsome,  strong  arms,  rather  surprising  on  a  small- 
ish woman. 

Paul  cleared  away,  put  on  the  kettle,  and  set  the  table. 

"  There  is  n't  a  train  till  four-twenty,"  he  said. 
"  You  've  time  enough." 

"  Oh  no,  I  have  n't !  "  she  cried,  blinking  at  him  over 
the  towel  as  she  wiped  her  face. 

66  Yes,  you  have.  You  must  drink  a  cup  of  tea  at  any 
rate.  Should  I  come  with  you  to  Keston?  " 

"  Come  with  me?  What  for,  I  should  like  to  know? 
Now,  what  have  I  to  take  him?  Eh,  dear!  His  clean 
shirt  —  and  it 's  a  blessing  it  is  clean.  But  it  had  better 
be  aired.  And  stockings  —  he  won't  want  them  —  and  a 
towel,  I  suppose;  and  handkerchiefs.  Now  what  else?" 

"  A  comb,  a  knife  and  fork  and  spoon,"  said  Paul.  His 
father  had  been  in  the  hospital  before. 

"  Goodness  knows  what  sort  of  state  his  feet  were  in," 
continued  Mrs.  Morel,  as  she  combed  her  long  brown  hair, 
that  was  fine  as  silk,  and  was  touched  now  with  grey. 
"  He  's  very  particular  to  wash  himself  to  the  waist,  but 
below  he  thinks  does  n't  matter.  But  there,  I  suppose  they 
see  plenty  like  it." 

Paul  had  laid  the  table.  He  cut  his  mother  one  or  two 
pieces  of  very  thin  bread-and-butter. 

"  Here  you  are,"  he  said,  putting  her  cup  of  tea  in  Jier 
place. 

"  I  can't  be  bothered !  "  she  exclaimed  crossly. 

"  Well,  you  've  got  to,  so  there,  now  it 's  put  out 
ready,"  he  insisted. 

So  she  sat  down  and  sipped  her  tea,  and  ate  a  little,  in 
silence.  She  was  thinking. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  was  gone,  to  walk  the  two  and 
a  half  miles  to  Keston  Station.  All  the  things  she  was 
taking  him  she  had  in  her  bulging  string  bag.  Paul 
watched  her  go  up  the  road  between  the  hedges  —  a  little, 
quick-stepping  figure,  and  his  heart  ached  for  her,  that 
she  was  thrust  forward  again  into  pain  and  trouble.  And 
she,  tripping  so  quickly  in  her  anxiety,  felt  at  the  back  of 


108  Sons  and  Lovers 

her  her  son's  heart  waiting  on  her,  felt  him  bearing  what 
part  of  the  burden  he  could,  even  supporting  her.  And 
when  she  was  at  the  hospital,  she  thought :  "  It  will  upset 
that  lad  when  I  tell  him  how  bad  it  is.  I  'd  better  be  care- 
ful." And  when  she  was  trudging  home  again,  she  felt 
she  was  coming  to  share  her  burden. 

"Is  it  bad?"  asked  Paul,  as  soon  as  she  entered  the 
house. 

"  It 's  bad  enough,"  she  replied. 

"What?" 

She  sighed  and  sat  down,  undoing  her  bonnet-strings. 
Her  son  watched  her  face  as  it  was  lifted,  and  her  small, 
work-hardened  hands  fingering  at  the  bow  under  her 
chin. 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  "  it 's  not  really  dangerous,  but 
the  nurse  says  it  's  a  dreadful  smash.  You  see,  a  great 
piece  of  rock  fell  on  his  leg  —  here  —  and  it 's  a  com- 
pound fracture.  There  are  pieces  of  bone  sticking 
through  —  " 

"  Ugh  —  how  horrid !  "  exclaimed  the  children. 

"  And,"  she  continued,  "  of  course  he  says  he  's  going  to 
die  —  it  would  n't  be  him  if  he  did  n't.  '  I  'm  done  for, 
my  lass ! '  he  said,  looking  at  me.  '  Don't  be  so  silly,' 
I  said  to  him.  '  You  're  not  going  to  die  of  a  broken 
leg,  however  badly  it 's  smashed.'  '  I  s'll  niver  come  out 
of  'ere  but  in  a  wooden  box,'  he  groaned.  '  Well,'  I  said, 
6  if  you  want  them  to  carry  you  into  the  garden  in  a 
wooden  box,  when  you  're  better,  I  've  no  doubt  they 
will.'  '  If  we  think  it 's  good  for  him,'  said  the  Sister. 
She  's  an  awfully  nice  Sister,  but  rather  strict. " 

Mrs.  Morel  took  off  her  bonnet.  The  children  waited  in 
silence. 

"  Of  course,  he  is  bad,"  she  continued,  "  and  he  will  be. 
It 's  a  great  shock,  and  he  's  lost  a  lot  of  blood;  and,  of 
course,  it  is  a  very  dangerous  smash.  It 's  not  at  all  sure 
that  it  will  mend  so  easily.  And  then  there  's  the  fever 
and  the  mortification  —  if  it  took  bad  ways  he  'd  quickly 
be  gone.  But  there,  he  's  a  clean-blooded  man,  with  won- 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  109 

derful  healing  flesh,  and  so  I  see  no  reason  why  it  should 
take  bad  ways.  Of  course  there  's  a  wound  —  ' 

She  was  pale  now  with  emotion  and  anxiety.  The  three 
children  realized  that  it  was  very  bad  for  their  father, 
and  the  house  was  silent,  anxious. 

"  But  he  always  gets  better,"  said  Paul  after  a  while. 

"  That 's  what  I  tell  him,"  said  the  mother. 

Everybody  moved  about  in  silence. 

"  And  he  really  looked  nearly  done  for,"  she  said. 
"  But  the  Sister  says  that  is  the  pain." 

Annie  took  away  her  mother's  coat  and  bonnet. 

"  And  he  looked  at  me  when  I  came  away !  I  said : 
'  I  s'll  have  to  go  now,  Walter,  because  of  the  train  —  and 
the  children.5  And  he  looked  at  me.  It  seems  hard." 

Paul  took  up  his  brush  again  and  went  on  painting. 
Arthur  went  outside  for  some  coal.  Annie  sat  looking 
dismal.  And  Mrs.  Morel,  in  her  little  rocking-chair  that 
her  husband  had  made  for  her  when  the  first  baby  was 
coming,  remained  motionless,  brooding.  She  was  grieved, 
and  bitterly  sorry  for  the  man  who  was  hurt  so  much. 
But  still,  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  where  the  love  should 
have  burned,  there  was  a  blank.  Now,  when  all  her 
woman's  pity  was  roused  to  its  full  extent,  when  she 
would  have  slaved  herself  to  death  to  nurse  him  and  to 
save  him,  when  she  would  have  taken  the  pain  herself,  if 
she  could,  somewhere  far  away  inside  her,  she  felt  in- 
different to  him  and  to  his  suffering.  It  hurt  her  most 
of  all,  this  failure  to  love  him,  even  when  he  roused  her 
strong  emotions.  She  brooded  awhile. 

"  And  there,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  when  I  'd  got  half- 
way to  Keston,  I  found  I  'd  come  out  in  my  working 
boots  —  and  look  at  them."  They  were  an  old  pair  of 
Paul's,  brown  and  rubbed  through  at  the  toes.  "  I  did  n't 
know  what  to  do  with  myself,  for  shame,"  she  added. 

In  the  morning,  when  Annie  and  Arthur  were  at  school, 
Mrs.  Morel  talked  again  to  her  son,  who  was  helping  her 
with  her  housework. 

"  I  found  Barker  at  the  hospital.     He  did  look  bad, 


110  Sons  and  Lovers 

poor  little  fellow !  *  Well,'  I  said  to  him,  '  what  sort  of  a 
journey  did  you  have  with  him?  '  '  Dunna  ax  me,  missis ! ' 
he  said.  '  Ay,'  I  said,  « I  know  what  he  'd  be.'  «  But  it 
wor  bad  for  him,  Mrs.  Morel,  it  wor  that! '  he  said.  ' 1 
know,'  I  said.  '  At  ivry  jolt  I  thought  my  'eart  would  ha' 
flown  clean  out  o'  my  mouth,'  he  said.  '  An'  the  scream  'e 
give  sometimes !  Missis,  not  for  a  fortune  would  I  go 
through  wi'  it  again.'  *  I  can  quite  understand  it,'  I  said. 
'  It 's  a  nasty  job,  though,'  he  said,  '  an'  one  as  '11  be  a 
long  while  afore  it 's  right  again.'  '  I  'm  afraid  it  will,'  I 
said.  I  like  Mr.  Barker  —  I  do  like  him.  There  's  some- 
thing so  manly  about  him." 

Paul  resumed  his  task  silently. 

"  And  of  course,"  Mrs.  Morel  continued,  "  for  a  man 
like  your  father,  the  hospital  is  hard.  He  can't  under- 
stand rules  and  regulations.  And  he  won't  let  anybody 
else  touch  him,  not  if  he  can  help  it.  When  he  smashed 
the  muscles  of  his  thigh,  and  it  had  to  be  dressed  four 
times  a  day,  would  he  let  anybody  but  me  or  his  mother 
do  it?  He  would  n't.  So,  of  course,  he  '11  suffer  in  there 
with  the  nurses.  And  I  did  n't  like  leaving  him.  I  'm 
sure,  when  I  kissed  him  an'  came  away,  it  seemed  a  shame." 

So  she  talked  to  her  son,  almost  as  if  she  were  thinking 
aloud  to  him,  and  he  took  it  in  as  best  he  could,  by  sharing 
her  trouble  to  lighten  it.  And  in  the  end  she  shared  almost 
everything  with  him  without  knowing. 

Morel  had  a  very  bad  time.  For  a  week  he  was  in  a 
critical  condition.  Then  he  began  to  mend.  And  then, 
knowing  he  was  going  to  get  better,  the  whole  family 
sighed  with  relief,  and  proceeded  to  live  happily. 

They  were  not  badly  off  whilst  Morel  was  in  the  hos- 
pital. There  were  fourteen  shillings  a  week  from  the  pit, 
ten  shillings  from  the  sick  club,  and  five  shillings  from  the 
Disability  Fund;  and  then  every  week  the  butties  had 
something  for  Mrs.  Morel  —  five  or  seven  shillings  —  so 
that  she  was  quite  well  to  do.  And  whilst  Morel  was 
progressing  favourably  in  the  hospital,  the  family  was 
extraordinarily  happy  and  peaceful.  On  Saturdays  and 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  111 

Wednesdays  Mrs.  Morel  went  to  Nottingham  to  see  her 
husband.  Then  she  always  brought  back  some  little  thing : 
a  small  tube  of  paints  for  Paul,  or  some  thick  paper ;  a 
couple  of  postcards  for  Annie,  that  the  whole  family  re- 
joiced over  for  days  before  the  girl  was  allowed  to  send 
them  away;  or  a  fret-saw  for  Arthur,  or  a  bit  of  pretty 
wood.  She  described  her  adventures  into  the  big  shops 
with  joy.  Soon  the  folk  in  the  picture-shop  knew  her, 
and  knew  about  Paul.  The  girl  in  the  book-shop  took  a 
keen  interest  in  her.  Mrs.  Morel  was  full  of  information 
when  she  got  home  from  Nottingham.  The  three  sat 
round  till  bedtime,  listening,  putting  in,  arguing.  Then 
Paul  often  raked  the  fire. 

"  I  'm  the  man  in  the  house  now,"  he  used  to  say  to  his 
mother  with  joy.  They  learned  how  perfectly  peaceful 
the  home  could  be.  And  they  almost  regretted  —  though 
none  of  them  would  have  owned  to  such  callousness  — 
that  their  father  was  soon  coming  back. 

Paul  was  now  fourteen,  and  was  looking  for  work.  He 
was  a  rather  small  and  rather  finely-made  boy,  with  dark 
brown  hair  and  light  blue  eyes.  His  face  had  already 
lost  its  youthful  chubbiness,  and  was  becoming  somewhat 
like  William's  —  rough- featured,  almost  rugged  —  and  it 
was  extraordinarily  mobile.  Usually  he  looked  as  if  he 
saw  things,  was  full  of  life,  and  warm ;  then  his  smile,  like 
his  mother's,  came  suddenly  and  was  very  lovable;  and 
then,  when  there  was  any  clog  in  his  soul's  quick  running, 
his  face  went  stupid  and  ugly.  He  was  the  sort  of  boy 
that  becomes  a  clown  and  a  lout  as  soon  as  he  is  not 
understood,  or  feels  himself  held  cheap;  and,  again,  is 
adorable  at  the  first  touch  of  warmth. 

He  suffered  very  much  from  the  first  contact  with  any- 
thing. When  he  was  seven,  the  starting  school  had  been 
a  nightmare  and  a  torture  to  him.  But  afterwards  he 
liked  it.  And  now  that  he  felt  he  had  to  go  out  into 
life,  he  went  through  agonies  of  shrinking  self-conscious- 
ness. He  was  quite  a  clever  painter  for  a  boy  of  his 
years,  and  he  knew  some  French  and  German  and  mathe- 


Sons  and  Lovers 

matics  that  Mr.  Heaton  had  taught  him.  But  nothing 
he  had  was  of  any  commercial  value.  He  was  not  strong 
enough  for  heavy  manual  work,  his  mother  said.  He  did 
not  care  for  making  things  with  his  hands,  preferred  rac- 
ing about,  or  making  excursions  into  the  country,  or 
reading,  or  painting. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  be  ?  "  his  mother  asked. 

"  Anything." 

"  That  is  no  answer,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

But  it  was  quite  truthfully  the  only  answer  he  could 
give.  His  ambition,  as  far  as  this  world's  gear  went,  was 
quietly  to  earn  his  thirty  or  thirty-five  shillings  a  week 
somewhere  near  home,  and  then,  when  his  father  died,  have 
a  cottage  with  his  mother,  paint  and  go  out  as  he  liked, 
and  live  happy  ever  after.  That  was  his  programme  as 
far  as  doing  things  went.  But  he  was  proud  within  him- 
self, measuring  people  against  himself,  and  placing  them, 
inexorably.  And  he  thought  that  perhaps  he  might  also 
make  a  painter,  the  real  thing.  But  that  he  left  alone. 

"  Then,"  said  his  mother,  "  you  must  look  in  the  paper 
for  the  advertisements." 

He  looked  at  her.  It  seemed  to  him  a  bitter  humiliation 
and  an  anguish  to  go  through.  But  he  said  nothing. 
When  he  got  up  in  the  morning,  his  whole  being  was 
knotted  up  over  this  one  thought: 

"  I  've  got  to  go  and  look  for  advertisements  for  a 
job." 

It  stood  in  front  of  the  morning,  that  thought,  killing 
all  joy  and  even  life,  for  him.  His  heart  felt  like  a  tight 
knot. 

And  then,  at  ten  o'clock,  he  set  off.  He  was  supposed 
to  be  a  queer,  quiet  child.  Going  up  the  sunny  street  of 
the  little  town,  he  felt  as  if  all  the  folk  he  met  said  to 
themselves :  "  He  's  going  to  the  Co-op  reading-room  to 
look  in  the  papers  for  a  place.  He  can't  get  a  job.  I 
suppose  he  's  living  on  his  mother."  Then  he  crept  up  the 
stone  stairs  behind  the  drapery  shop  at  the  Co-op,  and 
peeped  in  the  reading-room.  Usually  one  or  two  men  were 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  113 

there,  either  old,  useless  fellow,  or  colliers  "  on  the  club." 
So  he  entered,  full  of  shrinking  and  suffering  when  they 
looked  up,  seated  himself  at  the  table,  and  pretended  to 
scan  the  news.  He  knew  they  would  think,  "  What  does 
a  lad  of  thirteen  want  in  a  reading-room  with  a  news- 
paper? "  and  he  suffered. 

Then  he  looked  wistfully  out  of  the  window.  Already 
he  was  a  prisoner  of  industrialism.  Large  sunflowers 
stared  over  the  old  red  wall  of  the  garden  opposite,  look- 
ing in  their  j  oily  way  down  on  the  women  who  were  hurry- 
ing with  something  for  dinner.  The  valley  was  full  of 
corn,  brightening  in  the  sun.  Two  colliers,  among  the 
fields,  waved  their  small  white  plumes  of  steam.  Far  off 
on  the  hills  were  the  woods  of  Annesley,  dark  and  fasci- 
nating. Already  his  heart  went  down.  He  was  being 
taken  into  bondage.  His  freedom  in  the  beloved  home 
valley  was  going  now. 

The  brewers'  waggons  came  rolling  up  from  Keston 
with  enormous  barrels,  four  a  side,  like  beans  in  a  burst 
bean-pod.  The  waggoner,  throned  aloft,  rolling  massively 
in  his  seat,  was  not  so  much  below  Paul's  eye.  The  man's 
hair,  on  his  small,  bullet  head,  was  bleached  almost  white 
by  the  sun,  and  on  his  thick  red  arms,  rocking  idly  on 
his  sack  apron,  the  white  hairs  glistened.  His  red  face 
shone  and  was  almost  asleep  with  sunshine.  The  horses, 
handsome  and  brown,  went  on  by  themselves,  looking  by 
far  the  masters  of  the  show. 

Paul  wished  Jbe  were  stupid.  "  I  wish,"  he  thought  to 
himself,  "  I  was  fat  like  him,  and  like  a  dog  in  the  sun. 
I  wish  I  was  a  pig  and  a  brewer's  waggoner." 

Then,  the  room  being  at  last  empty,  he  would  hastily 
copy  an  advertisement  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  then  another, 
and  slip  out  in  immense  relief.  His  mother  would  scan 
over  his  copies. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  you  may  try." 

William  had  written  out  a  letter  of  application,  couched 
in  admirable  business  language,  which  Paul  copied,  with 
variations.  The  boy's  handwriting  was  execrable,  so  that 


114  Sons  and  Lovers 

William,  who  did  all  things  well,  got  into  a  fever  of 
impatience. 

The  elder  brother  was  becoming  quite  swanky.  In 
London  he  found  that  he  could  associate  with  men  far 
above  his  Bestwood  friends  in  station.  Some  of  the 
clerks  in  the  office  had  studied  for  the  law,  and  were  more 
or  less  going  through  a  kind  of  apprenticeship.  William 
always  made  friends  among  men  wherever  he  went,  he  was 
so  jolly.  Therefore  he  was  soon  visiting  and  staying  in 
houses  of  men  who,  in  Bestwood,  would  have  looked  down 
on  the  unapproachable  bank  manager,  and  would  merely 
have  called  indifferently  on  the  Rector.  So  he  began  to 
fancy  himself  as  a  great  gun.  He  was,  indeed,  rather 
surprised  at  the  ease  with  which  he  became  a  gentleman. 

His  mother  was  glad,  he  seemed  so  pleased.  And  his 
lodging  in  Walthamstow  was  so  dreary.  But  now  there 
seemed  to  come  a  kind  of  fever  into  the  young  man's 
letters.  He  was  unsettled  by  all  the  change,  he  did  not 
stand  firm  on  his  own  feet,  but  seemed  to  spin  rather 
giddily  on  the  quick  current  of  the  new  life.  His  mother 
was  anxious  for  him.  She  could  feel  him  losing  himself. 
He  had  danced  and  gone  to  the  theatre,  boated  on  the 
river,  been  out  with  friends ;  and  she  knew  he  sat  up 
afterwards  in  his  cold  bedroom  grinding  away  at  Latin, 
because  he  intended  to  get  on  in  his  office,  and  in  the  law 
as  much  as  he  could.  He  never  sent  his  mother  any  money 
now.  It  was  all  taken,  the  little  he  had,  for  his  own  life. 
And  she  did  not  want  any,  except  sometimes,  when  she  was 
in  a  tight  corner,  and  when  ten  shillings  would  have  saved 
her  much  worry.  She  still  dreamed  of  William,  and  of 
what  he  would  do,  with  herself  behind  him.  Never  for  a 
minute  would  she  admit  to  herself  how  heavy  and  anxious 
her  heart  was  because  of  him. 

Also  he  talked  a  good  deal  now  of  a  girl  he  had  met 
at  a  dance,  a  handsome  brunette,  quite  young,  and  a 
lady,  after  whom  the  men  were  running  thick  and 
fast. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  would  run,  my  boy,"  his  mother  wrote 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  115 

to  him,  "  unless  you  saw  all  the  other  men  chasing  her 
too.  You  feel  safe  enough  and  vain  enough  in  a  crowd. 
But  take  care,  and  see  how  you  feel  when  you  find  your- 
self alone,  and  in  triumph." 

William  resented  these  things,  and  continued  the  chase. 
He  had  taken  the  girl  on  the  river.  "  If  you  saw  her, 
mother,  you  would  know  how  I  feel.  Tall  and  elegant, 
with  the  clearest  of  clear,  transparent  olive  complexions, 
hair  as  black  as  jet,  and  such  grey  eyes  —  bright,  mock- 
ing, like  lights  on  water  at  night.  It  is  all  very  well  to 
be  a  bit  satirical  till  you  see  her.  And  she  dresses  as  well 
as  any  woman  in  London.  I  tell  you,  your  son  does  n't 
half  put  his  head  up  when  she  goes  walking  down  Picca- 
dilly with  him." 

Mrs.  Morel  wondered,  in  her  heart,  if  her  son  did  not 
go  walking  down  Piccadilly  with  an  elegant  figure  and 
fine  clothes,  rather  than  with  a  woman  who  was  near  to 
him.  But  she  congratulated  him  in  her  doubtful  fashion. 
And,  as  she  stood  over  the  washing-tub,  the  mother 
brooded  over  her  son.  She  saw  him  saddled  with  an  ele- 
gant and  expensive  wife,  earning  little  money,  dragging 
along  and  getting  draggled  in  some  small,  ugly  house  in 
a  suburb.  "  But  there,"  she  told  herself,  "  I  am  very  likely 
a  silly  —  meeting  trouble  half-way."  Nevertheless,  the 
load  of  anxiety  scarcely  ever  left  her  heart,  lest  William 
should  do  the  wrong  thing  by  himself. 

Presently,  Paul  was  bidden  call  upon  Thomas  Jordan, 
Manufacturer  of  Surgical  Appliances,  at  21,  Spaniel  Row, 
Nottingham.  Mrs.  Morel  was  all  joy. 

"  There,  you  see !  "  she  cried,  her  eyes  shining.  "  You  've 
only  written  four  letters,  and  the  third  is  answered. 
You  're  lucky,  my  boy,  as  I  always  said  you  were." 

Paul  looked  at  the  picture  of  a  wooden  leg,  adorned 
with  elastic  stockings  and  other  appliances,  that  figured 
on  Mr.  Jordan's  notepaper,  and  he  felt  alarmed.  He  had 
not  known  that  elastic  stockings  existed.  And  he  seemed 
to  feel  the  business  world,  with  its  regulated  system  of 
values,  and  its  impersonality,  and  he  dreaded  it.  It 


116  Sons  and  Lovers 

seemed  monstrous  also  that  a  business  could  be  run  on 
wooden  legs. 

Mother  and  son  set  off  together  one  Tuesday  morning. 
It  was  August  and  blazing  hot.  Paul  walked  with  some- 
thing screwed  up  tight  inside  him.  He  would  have  suffered 
much  physical  pain  rather  than  this  unreasonable  suffer- 
ing at  being  exposed  to  strangers,  to  be  accepted  or  re- 
jected. Yet  he  chattered  away  with  his  mother.  He 
would  never  have  confessed  to  her  how  he  suffered  over 
these  things,  and  she  only  partly  guessed.  She  was  gay, 
like  a  sweetheart.  She  stood  in  front  of  the  ticket-office 
at  Bestwood,  and  Paul  watched  her  take  from  her  purse 
the  money  for  the  tickets.  As  he  saw  her  hands  in  their 
old  black  kid  gloves  getting  the  silver  out  of  the  worn 
purse,  his  heart  contracted  with  pain  of  love  of  her. 

She  was  quite  excited,  and  quite  gay.  He  suffered  be- 
cause she  would  talk  aloud  in  presence  of  the  other 
travellers. 

"  Now  look  at  that  silly  cow !  "  she  said,  "  careering 
round  as  if  it  thought  it  was  a  circus." 

"  It 's  most  likely  a  bottfly,"  he  said  very  low. 

"A  what?"  she  asked  brightly  and  unashamed. 

They  thought  awhile.  He  was  sensible  all  the  time 
of  having  her  opposite  him.  Suddenly  their  eyes  met,  and 
she  smiled  to  him  —  a  rare,  intimate  smile,  beautiful  with 
brightness  and  love.  Then  each  looked  out  of  the  window. 

The  sixteen  slow  miles  of  railway  journey  passed.  The 
mother  and  son  walked  down  Station  Street,  feeling  the 
excitement  of  lovers  having  an  adventure  together.  In 
Carrington  Street  they  stopped  to  hang  over  the  parapet 
and  look  at  the  barges  on  the  canal  below. 

"  It 's  just  like  Venice,"  he  said,  seeing  the  sunshine  on 
the  water  that  lay  between  high  factory  walls. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  answered,  smiling. 

They  enjoyed  the  shops  immensely. 

"  Now  you  see  that  blouse,"  she  would  say,  "  would  n't 
that  just  suit  our  Annie?  And  for  one-and-eleven-three. 
Is  n't  that  cheap?" 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  117 

"  And  made  of  needlework  as  well,"  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

They  had  plenty  of  time,  so  they  did  not  hurry.  The 
town  was  strange  and  delightful  to  them.  But  the  boy 
was  tied  up  inside  in  a  knot  of  apprehension.  He  dreaded 
the  interview  with  Thomas  Jordan. 

It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock  by  St.  Peter's  Church. 
They  turned  up  a  narrow  street  that  led  to  the  Castle. 
It  was  gloomy  and  old-fashioned,  having  low  dark  shops 
and  dark  green  house-doors  with  brass  knockers,  and 
yellow-ochred  doorsteps  projecting  on  to  the  pavement; 
then  another  old  shop  whose  small  window  looked  like  a 
cunning,  half-shut  eye.  Mother  and  son  went  cautiously, 
looking  everywhere  for  "  Thomas  Jordan  and  Son."  It 
was  like  hunting  in  some  wild  place.  They  were  on  tiptoe 
of  excitement. 

Suddenly  they  spied  a  big,  dark  archway,  in  which 
were  names  of  various  firms,  Thomas  Jordan  among 
them. 

"  Here  it  is !  "  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "  But  now  where  is 
it?  " 

They  looked  round.  On  one  side  was  a  queer,  dark, 
cardboard  factory,  on  the  other  a  Commercial  Hotel. 

"  It  's  up  the  entry,"  saM  Paul. 

And  they  ventured  under  the  archway,  as  into  the 
jaws  of  the  dragon.  They  emerged  into  a  wide  yard, 
like  a  well,  with  buildings  all  round.  It  was  littered  with 
straw  and  boxes,  and  cardboard.  The  sunshine  actually 
caught  one  crate  whose  straw  was  streaming  on  to  the 
yard  like  gold.  But  elsewhere  the  place  was  like  a  pit. 
There  were  several  doors,  and  two  flights  of  steps. 
Straight  in  front,  on  a  dirty  glass  door  at  the  top  of 
a  staircase,  loomed  the  ominous  words  "  Thomas  Jordan 
and  Son  —  Surgical  Appliances."  Mrs.  Morel  went  first, 
her  son  followed  her.  Charles  I  mounted  his  scaffold  with 
a  lighter  heart  than  had  Paul  Morel  as  he  followed  his 
mother  up  the  dirty  steps  to  the  dirty  door. 

She  pushed  open  the  door,  and  stood  in  pleased  sur- 


118  Sons  and  Lovers 

prise.  In  front  of  her  was  a  big  warehouse,  with  creamy 
paper  parcels  everywhere,  and  clerks,  with  their  shirt- 
sleeves rolled  back,  were  going  about  in  an  at-home  sort 
of  way.  The  light  was  subdued,  the  glossy  cream  parcels 
seemed  luminous,  the  counters  were  of  dark  brown  wood. 
All  was  quiet  and  very  homely.  Mrs.  Morel  took  two  steps 
forward,  then  waited.  Paul  stood  behind  her.  She  had  on 
her  Sunday  bonnet  and  a  black  veil;  he  wore  a  boy's 
broad  white  collar  and  a  Norfolk  suit. 

One  of  the  clerks  looked  up.  He  was  thin  and  tall, 
with  a  small  face.  His  way  of  looking  was  alert.  Then 
he  glanced  round  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  where  was 
a  glass  office.  And  then  he  came  forward.  He  did  not 
say  anything,  but  leaned  in  a  gentle,  inquiring  fashion 
towards  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  Can  I  see  Mr.  Jordan?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  '11  fetch  him,"  answered  the  young  man. 

He  went  down  to  the  glass  office.  A  red-faced,  white- 
whiskered  old  man  looked  up.  He  reminded  Paul  of  a 
Pomeranian  dog.  Then  the  same  little  man  came  up  the 
room.  He  had  short  legs,  was  rather  stout,  and  wore  an 
alpaca  jacket.  So,  with  one  ear  up,  as  it  were,  he  came 
stoutly  and  inquiringly  down  the  room. 

"  Good-morning ! "  he  said,  hesitating  before  Mrs. 
Morel,  in  doubt  as  to  whether  she  were  a  customer  or 
not. 

"  Good-morning.  I  came  with  my  son,  Paul  Morel. 
You  asked  him  to  call  this  morning." 

"  Come  this  way,"  said  Mr.  Jordan,  in  a  rather  snappy 
little  manner  intended  to  be  businesslike. 

They  followed  the  manufacturer  into  a  grubby  little 
room,  upholstered  in  black  American  leather,  glossy  with 
the  rubbing  of  many  customers.  On  the  table  was  a 
pile  of  trusses,  yellow  wash-leather  hoops  tangled  together. 
They  looked  new  and  living.  Paul  sniffed  the  odour  of 
new  wash-leather.  He  wondered  what  the  things  were. 
By  this  time  he  was  so  much  stunned  that  he  only  noticed 
the  outside  things. 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  119 

"  Sit  down !  "  said  Mr.  Jordan,  irritably  pointing  Mrs. 
Morel  to  a  horse-hair  chair.  She  sat  on  the  edge  in  an 
uncertain  fashion.  Then  the  little  old  man  fidgeted  and 
found  a  paper. 

"  Did  you  write  this  letter?  "  he  snapped,  thrusting 
what  Paul  recognized  as  his  own  notepaper  in  front  of 
him. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered. 

At  that  moment  he  was  occupied  in  two  ways :  first,  in 
feeling  guilty  for  telling  a  lie,  since  William  had  composed 
the  letter ;  second,  in  wondering  why  his  letter  seemed  so 
strange  and  different,  in  the  fat,  red  hand  of  the  man, 
from  what  it  had  been  when  it  lay  on  the  kitchen  table. 
It  was  like  part  of  himself,  gone  astray.  He  resented 
the  way  the  man  held  it. 

"  Where  did  you  learn  to  write?  "  said  the  old  man 
crossly. 

Paul  merely  looked  at  him  shamedly,  and  did  not  answer. 

"  He  is  a  bad  writer,"  put  in  Mrs.  Morel  apologetically. 
Then  she  pushed  up  her  veil.  Paul  hated  her  for  not 
being  prouder  with  this  common  little  man,  and  he  loved 
her  face  clear  of  the  veil. 

"  And  you  say  you  know  French?  "  inquired  the  little 
man,  still  sharply. 

"  Yes,"  said  Paul. 

"  What  school  did  you  go  to?  " 

"  The  Board-school." 

"  And  did  you  learn  it  there  ?  " 

"  No  —  I  —  "  The  boy  went  crimson  and  got  no 
further. 

"  His  godfather  gave  him  lessons,"  said  Mrs.  Morel, 
half-pleading  and  rather  distant. 

Mr.  Jordan  hesitated.     Then,  in  his  irritable  manner 

—  he  always  seemed  to  keep  his  hands  ready  for  action 

—  he  pulled  another  sheet  of  paper  from  his  pocket,  un- 
folded it.    The  paper  made  a  crackling  noise.    He  handed 
it  to  Paul. 

"  Read  that,"  he  said. 


120  Sons  and  Lovers 

It  was  a  note  in  French,  in  thin,  flimsy  foreign  hand- 
writing that  the  boy  could  not  decipher.  He  stared 
blankly  at  the  paper. 

"  '  Monsieur,'  "  he  began ;  then  he  looked  in  great  con- 
fusion at  Mr.  Jordan.  "  It 's  the  —  it 's  the  —  " 

He  wanted  to  say  "  handwriting,"  but  his  wits  would 
no  longer  work  even  sufficiently  to  supply  him  with  the 
word.  Feeling  an  utter  fool,  and  hating  Mr.  Jordan,  he 
turned  desperately  to  the  paper  again. 

"  '  Sir,  —  Please  send  me  '  —  er  —  er  —  I  can't  tell  the 
—  er  —  '  two  pairs  —  gris  fil  bas  —  grey  thread  stock- 
ings '  —  er  —  er  —  *  sans  —  without '  —  er  —  I  can't  tell 
the  words  —  er  —  '  doigts  —  fingers  '  —  er  —  I  can't  tell 
the  —  " 

He  wanted  to  say  "  handwriting,"  but  the  word  still 
refused  to  come.  Seeing  him  stuck,  Mr.  Jordan  snatched 
the  paper  from  him. 

"  '  Please  send  by  return  two  pairs  grey  thread  stock- 
ings without  toes. '  ' 

"  Well,"  flashed  Paul,  "  '  doigts  '  means  '  fingers  '  —  as 
well  —  as  a  rule  —  " 

The  little  man  looked  at  him.  He  did  not  know 
whether  "  doigts  "  meant  "  fingers  " ;  he  knew  that  for  all 
his  purposes  it  meant  "  toes." 

"  Fingers  to  stockings !  "  he  snapped. 

"  Well,  it  does  mean  fingers,"  the  boy  persisted. 

He  hated  the  little  man,  who  made  such  a  clod  of  him. 
Mr.  Jordan  looked  at  the  pale,  stupid,  defiant  boy,  then 
at  the  mother,  who  sat  quiet  and  with  that  peculiar  shut- 
off  look  of  the  poor  who  have  to  depend  on  the  favour  of 
others. 

"  And  when  could  he  come?  "  he  asked. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "  as  soon  as  you  wish.  He 
has  finished  school  now." 

"  He  would  live  in  Bestwood?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  he  could  be  in  —  at  the  station  —  at  quar- 
ter to  eight." 

"H'm!" 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  121 

It  ended  by  Paul's  being  engaged  as  junior  spiral  clerk, 
at  eight  shillings  a  week.  The  boy  did  not  open  his 
mouth  to  say  another  word,  after  having  insisted  that 
"  doigts  "  meant  "  fingers."  He  followed  his  mother  down 
the  stairs.  She  looked  at  him  with  her  bright  blue  eyes 
full  of  love  and  joy. 

"  I  think  you  '11  like  it,"  she  said. 

*  Doigts  '  does  mean  '  fingers,'  mother,  and  it  was  the 
writing.     I  could  n't  read  the  writing." 

"  Never  mind,  my  boy.  I  'm  sure  he  '11  be  all  right,  and 
you  won't  see  much  of  him.  Was  n't  that  first  young 
fellow  nice?  I  'm  sure  you  '11  like  them." 

"  But  was  n't  Mr.  Jordan  common,  mother  ?  Does  he 
own  it  all?  " 

"  I  suppose  he  was  a  workman  who  has  got  on,"  she 
said.  "  You  must  n't  mind  people  so  much.  They  're  not 
being  disagreeable  to  you  —  it's  their  way.  You  always 
think  people  are  meaning  things  for  you.  But  they  don't." 

It  was  very  sunny.  Over  the  big  desolate  space  of  the 
market-place  the  blue  sky  shimmered,  and  the  granite 
cobbles  of  the  paving  glistened.  Shops  down  the  Long 
Row  were  deep  in  obscurity,  and  the  shadow  was  full  of 
colour.  Just  where  the  horse  trams  trundled  across  the 
market  was  a  row  of  fruit  stalls,  with  fruit  blazing  in 
the  sun  —  apples  and  piles  of  reddish  oranges,  small 
greengage  plums  and  bananas.  There  was  a  warm  scent 
of  fruit  as  mother  and  son  passed.  Gradually  his  feeling 
of  ignominy  and  of  rage  sank. 

"  Where  should  we  go  for  dinner?  "  asked  the  mother. 

It  was  felt  to  be  a  reckless  extravagance.  Paul  had 
only  been  in  an  eating-house  once  or  twice  in  his  life, 
and  then  only  to  have  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  bun.  Most  of 
the  people  of  Bestwood  considered  that  tea  and  bread-and- 
butter,  and  perhaps  potted  beef,  was  all  they  could  afford 
to  eat  in  Nottingham.  Real  cooked  dinner  was  considered 
great  extravagance.  Paul  felt  rather  guilty. 

They  found  a  place  that  looked  quite  cheap.  But 
when  Mrs.  Morel  scanned  the  bill  of  fare,  her  heart  was 


Sons  and  Lovers 

heavy,  things  were  so  dear.  So  she  ordered  kidney  pies 
and  potatoes  as  the  cheapest  available  dish. 

'6  We  ought  n't  to  have  come  here,  mother,"  said  Paul. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  said.     "  We  won't  come  again." 

She  insisted  on  his  having  a  small  currant  tart,  because 
he  liked  sweets. 

"  I  don't  want  it,  mother,"  he  pleaded. 

"  Yes,"  she  insisted;   "  you  '11  have  it." 

And  she  looked  round  for  the  waitress.  But  the  waitress 
was  busy,  and  Mrs.  Morel  did  not  like  to  bother  her  then. 
So  the  mother  and  son  waited  for  the  girl's  pleasure, 
whilst  she  flirted  among  the  men. 

"  Brazen  hussy !  "  said  Mrs.  Morel  to  Paul.  "  Look 
now,  she  's  taking  that  man  his  pudding,  and  he  came  long 
after  us." 

"  It  does  n't  matter,  mother,"  said  Paul. 

Mrs.  Morel  was  angry.  But  she  was  too  poor,  and  her 
orders  were  too  meagre,  so  that  she  had  not  the  courage  to 
insist  on  her  rights  just  then.  They  waited  and  waited. 

"  Should  we  go,  mother?  "  he  said. 

Then  Mrs.  Morel  stood  up.    The  girl  was  passing  near. 

"  Will  you  bring  one  currant  tart?  "  said  Mrs.  Morel 
clearly. 

The  girl  looked  round  insolently. 

"  Directly,"  she  said. 

"  We  have  waited  quite  long  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

In  a  moment  the  girl  came  back  with  the  tart.  Mrs. 
Morel  asked  coldly  for  the  bill.  Paul  wanted  to  sink 
through  the  floor.  He  marvelled  at  his  mother's  hardness. 
He  knew  that  only  years  of  battling  had  taught  her  to  in- 
sist even  so  little  on  her  rights.  She  shrank  as  much 
as  he. 

"  It 's  the  last  time  I  go  there  for  anything !  "  she  de- 
clared, when  they  were  outside  the  place,  thankful  to  be 
clear. 

"  We  '11  go,"  she  said,  "  and  look  at  Keep's  and  Boot's, 
and  one  or  two  places,  shall  we?  " 

They  had  discussions  over  the  pictures,  and  Mrs.  Morel 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  123 

wanted  to  buy  him  a  little  sable  brush  that  he  hankered 
after.  But  this  indulgence  he  refused.  He  stood  in  front 
of  milliners'  shops  and  drapers'  shops  almost  bored,  but 
content  for  her  to  be  interested.  They  wandered  on. 

"Now,  just  look  at  those  black  grapes!"  she  said. 
"  They  make  your  mouth  water.  1 5ve  wanted  some  of 
those  for  years,  but  I  s'll  have  to  wait  a  bit  before  I  get 
them." 

Then  she  rejoiced  in  the  florists,  standing  in  the  door- 
way sniffing. 

"  Oh !  oh !    Is  n't  it  simply  lovely !  " 

Paul  saw,  in  the  darkness  of  the  shop,  an  elegant  young 
lady  in  black  peering  over  the  counter  curiously. 

"  They  're  looking  at  you,"  he  said,  trying  to  draw  his 
mother  away. 

"  But  what  is  it?  "  she  exclaimed,  refusing  to  be  moved. 

"  Stocks !  "  he  answered,  sniffing  hastily.  "  Look, 
there  's  a  tubful." 

"  So  there  is  —  red  and  white.  But  really,  I  never 
knew  stocks  to  smell  like  it !  "  And,  to  his  great  relief, 
she  moved  out  of  the  doorway,  but  only  to  stand  in  front 
of  the  window. 

"  Paul !  "  she  cried  to  him,  who  was  trying  to  get  out  of 
sight  of  the  elegant  young  lady  in  black  —  the  shop-girl, 
"Paul!  Just  look  here!" 

He  came  reluctantly  back. 

"Now,  just  look  at  that  fuschia!"  she  exclaimed, 
pointing. 

"  H'm !  "  He  made  a  curious,  interested  sound.  "  You  'd 
think  every  second  as  the  flowers  was  going  to  fall  off, 
they  hang  so  big  an'  heavy." 

"  And  such  an  abundance !  "  she  cried. 

"  And  the  way  they  drop  downwards  with  their  threads 
and  knots !  " 

"  Yes  !  "  she  exclaimed.     "  Lovely !  " 

"  I  wonder  who  '11  buy  it !  "  he  said. 

"  I  wonder !  "  she  answered.    "  Not  us." 

"  It  would  die  in  our  parlour." 


124  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Yes,  beastly  cold,  sunless  hole ;  it  kills  every  bit  of 
a  plant  you  put  in,  and  the  kitchen  chokes  them  to 
death." 

They  bought  a  few  things,  and  set  off  towards  the 
station.  Looking  up  the  canal,  through  the  dark  pass 
of  the  buildings,  they  saw  the  Castle  on  its  bluff  of  brown, 
green-bushed  rock,  in  a  positive  miracle  of  delicate  sun- 
shine. 

"  Won't  it  be  nice  for  me  to  come  out  at  dinner-times?  " 
said  Paul.  "  I  can  go  all  round  here  and  see  everything. 
I  s'll  love  it." 

"  You  will,"  assented  his  mother. 

He  had  spent  a  perfect  afternoon  with  his  mother. 
They  arrived  home  in  the  mellow  evening,  happy,  and 
glowing,  and  tired. 

In  the  morning  he  filled  in  the  form  for  his  season- 
ticket  and  took  it  to  the  station.  When  he  got  back,  his 
mother  was  just  beginning  to  wash  the  floor.  He  sat 
crouched  up  on  the  sofa. 

"  He  says  it  '11  be  here  by  Saturday,"  he  said. 

"  And  how  much  will  it  be?  " 

"  About  one  pound  eleven,"  he  said. 

She  went  on  washing  her  floor  in  silence. 

"Is  it  a  lot?"  he  asked. 

"  It  's  no  more  than  I  thought,"  she  answered. 

"  An'  I  s'll  earn  eight  shillings  a  week,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  went  on  with  her  work.  At  last 
she  said: 

"  That  William  promised  me,  when  he  went  to  London, 
as  he  'd  give  me  a  pound  a  month.  He  has  given  me  ten 
shillings  —  twice ;  and  now  I  know  he  has  n't  a  farthing 
if  I  asked  him.  Not  that  I  want  it.  Only  just  now  you  'd 
think  he  might  be  able  to  help  with  this  ticket,  which 
I  'd  never  expected." 

"  He  earns  a  lot,"  said  Paul. 

"  He  earns  a  hundred  and  thirty  pounds.  But  they  're 
all  alike.  They  're  large  in  promises,  but  it 's  precious 
little  fulfilment  you  get." 


Paul  Launches  into  Life 

"  He  spends  over  fifty  shillings  a  week  on  himself,"  said 
Paul. 

"  And  I  keep  this  house  on  less  than  thirty,"  she 
replied ;  "  and  am  supposed  to  find  money  for  extras. 
But  they  don't  care  about  helping  you,  once  they  've 
gone.  He  'd  rather  spend  it  on  that  dressed-up  creature." 

"  She  should  have  her  own  money  if  she  's  so  grand," 
said  Paul. 

"  She  should,  but  she  has  n't.  I  asked  him.  And  7 
know  he  does  n't  buy  her  a  gold  bangle  for  nothing.  I 
wonder  whoever  bought  me  a  gold  bangle." 

William  was  succeeding  with  his  "  Gipsy,"  as  he  called 
her.  He  asked  the  girl  —  her  name  was  Louisa  Lily 
Denys  Western  —  for  a  photograph  to  send  to  his  mother. 
The  photo  came  —  a  handsome  brunette,  taken  in  profile, 
smirking  slightly  —  and,  it  might  be,  quite  naked,  for  on 
the  photograph  not  a  scrap  of  clothing  was  to  be  seen, 
only  a  naked  bust. 

"  Yes,"  wrote  Mrs.  Morel  to  her  son,  "  the  photograph 
of  Louie  is  very  striking,  and  I  can  see  she  must  be 
attractive.  But  do  you  think,  my  boy,  it  was  very  good 
taste  of  a  girl  to  give  her  young  man  that  photo  to  send 
to  his  mother  —  the  first?  Certainly  the  shoulders  are 
beautiful,  as  you  say.  But  I  hardly  expected  to  see  so 
much  of  them  at  the  first  view." 

Morel  found  the  photograph  standing  on  the  chiffonier 
in  the  parlour.  He  came  out  with  it  between  his  thick 
thumb  and  finger. 

"  Who  dost  reckon  this  is?  "  he  asked  of  his  wife. 

"  It 's  the  girl  our  William  is  going  with,"  replied  Mrs. 
Morel. 

"  H'm !  'Er  's  a  bright  spark,  from  th'  look  on  'er,  an' 
one  as  wunna  do  him  owermuch  good  neither.  Who  is 
she?  " 

"  Her  name  is  Louisa  Lily  Denys  Western." 

"  An'  come  again  to-morrer !  "  exclaimed  the  miner. 
"  An'  is  'er  an  actress  ?  " 

"  She  is  not.    She  's  supposed  to  be  a  lady." 


126  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  I  '11  bet !  "  he  exclaimed,  still  staring  at  the  photo. 
"  A  lady,  is  she  ?  An'  how  much  does  she  reckon  ter  keep 
up  this  sort  o'  game  on?  " 

"  On  nothing.  She  lives  with  an  old  aunt,  whom  she 
hates,  and  takes  what  bit  of  money  's  given  her." 

"  H'm ! "  said  Morel,  laying  down  the  photograph. 
"  Then  he  's  a  fool  to  ha'  ta'en  up  wi'  such  a  one  as 
that." 

"  Dear  Mater,"  William  replied.  "  I  'm  sorry  you 
did  n't  like  the  photograph.  It  never  occurred  to  me 
when  I  sent  it,  that  you  might  n't  think  it  decent.  How- 
ever, I  told  Gyp  that  it  did  n't  quite  suit  your  prim  and 
proper  notions,  so  she  's  going  to  send  you  another,  that  I 
hope  will  please  you  better.  She  's  always  being  photo- 
graphed; in  fact,  the  photographers  ask  her  if  they  may 
take  her  for  nothing." 

Presently  the  new  photograph  came,  with  a  little  silly 
note  from  the  girl.  This  time  the  young  lady  was  seen 
in  a  black  satin  evening  bodice,  cut  square,  with  little 
puff  sleeves,  and  black  lace  hanging  down  her  beautiful 
arms. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  ever  wears  anything  except  evening 
clothes,"  said  Mrs.  Morel  sarcastically.  "  I  'm  sure  I 
ought  to  be  impressed." 

"  You  are  disagreeable,  mother,"  said  Paul.  "  I  think 
the  first  one  with  bare  shoulders  is  lovely." 

"  Do  you?  "  answered  his  mother.     "  Well,  I  don't." 

On  the  Monday  morning  the  boy  got  up  at  six  to  start 
work.  He  had  the  season-ticket,  which  had  cost  such 
bitterness,  in  his  waistcoat-pocket.  He  loved  it  with  its 
bars  of  yellow  across.  His  mother  packed  his  dinner  in  a 
small,  shut-up  basket,  and  he  set  off  at  a  quarter  to  seven 
to  catch  the  7.15  train.  Mrs.  Morel  came  to  the  entry- 
end  to  see  him  off. 

It  was  a  perfect  morning.  From  the  ash-tree  the  slen- 
der green  fruits  that  the  children  call  "  pigeons  "  were 
twinkling  gaily  down  on  a  little  breeze,  into  the  front 
gardens  of  the  houses.  The  valley  was  full  of  a  lustrous 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  127 

dark  haze,  through  which  the  ripe  corn  shimmered,  and 
in  which  the  steam  from  Minton  pit  melted  swiftly.  Puffs 
of  wind  came.  Paul  looked  over  the  high  woods  of  Alders- 
ley,  where  the  country  gleamed  and  home  had  never  pulled 
at  him  so  powerfully. 

"  Good-morning,  mother,"  he  said,  smiling,  but  feeling 
very  unhappy. 

"  Good-morning,55  she  replied  cheerfully  and  tenderly. 

She  stood  in  her  white  apron  on  the  open  road,  watch- 
ing him  as  he  crossed  the  field.  He  had  a  small,  compact 
body  that  looked  full  of  life.  She  felt,  as  she  saw  him 
trudging  over  the  field,  that  where  he  determined  to  go 
he  would  get.  She  thought  of  William.  He  would  have 
leaped  the  fence  instead  of  going  round  to  the  stile.  He 
was  away  in  London,  doing  well.  Paul  would  be  work- 
ing in  Nottingham.  Now  she  had  two  sons  in  the  world. 
She  could  think  of  two  places,  great  centres  of  industry, 
and  feel  that  she  had  put  a  man  into  each  of  them,  that 
these  men  would  work  out  what  she  wanted;  they  were 
derived  from  her,  they  were  of  her,  and  their  works  also 
would  be  hers.  All  the  morning  long  she  thought  of  Paul. 

At  eight  o'clock  he  climbed  the  dismal  stairs  of  Jor- 
dan's Surgical  Appliance  Factory,  and  stood  helplessly 
against  the  first  great  parcel-rack,  waiting  for  somebody 
to  pick  him  up.  The  place  was  still  not  awake.  Over  the 
counters  were  great  dust  sheets.  Two  men  only  had  ar- 
rived, and  were  heard  talking  in  a  corner,  as  they  took 
off  their  coats  and  rolled  up  their  shirt-sleeves.  It  was 
ten  past  eight.  Evidently  there  was  no  rush  of  punctu- 
ality. Paul  listened  to  the  voices  of  the  two  clerks.  Then 
he  heard  someone  cough,  and  saw  in  the  office  at  the  end 
of  the  room  an  old,  decaying  clerk,  in  a  round  smoking- 
cap  of  black  velvet  embroidered  with  red  and  green,  open- 
ing letters.  He  waited  and  waited.  One  of  the  junior 
clerks  went  to  the  old  man,  greeted  him  cheerily  and 
loudly.  Evidently  the  old  "  chief  "  was  deaf.  Then  the 
young  fellow  came  striding  importantly  down  to  his 
counter.  He  spied  Paul. 


128  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Hello !  "  he  said.     "  You  the  new  lad?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Paul. 

"  H'm !    What 's  your  name?  " 

"  Paul  Morel." 

"Paul  Morel?    All  right,  you  come  on  round  here." 

Paul  followed  him  round  the  rectangle  of  counters. 
The  room  was  second  storey.  It  had  a  great  hole  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  fenced  as  with  a  wall  of  counters,  and 
down  this  wide  shaft  the  lifts  went,  and  the  light  for  the 
bottom  storey.  Also  there  was  a  corresponding  big, 
oblong  hole  in  the  ceiling,  and  one  could  see  above,  over 
the  fence  of  the  top  floor,  some  machinery ;  and  right  away 
overhead  was  the  glass  roof,  and  all  light  for  the  three 
storeys  came  downwards,  getting  dimmer,  so  that  it  was 
always  night  on  the  ground  floor  and  rather  gloomy  on 
the  second  floor.  The  factory  was  the  top  floor,  the 
warehouse  the  second,  the  storehouse  the  ground  floor.  It 
was  an  insanitary,  ancient  place. 

Paul  was  led  round  to  a  very  dark  corner. 

"  This  is  the  '  Spiral '  corner,"  said  the  clerk.  "  You  're 
Spiral,  with  Pappleworth.  He  's  your  boss,  but  he  's  not 
come  yet.  He  does  n't  get  here  till  half-past  eight.  So 
you  can  fetch  the  letters,  if  you  like,  from  Mr.  Melling 
down  there." 

The  young  man  pointed  to  the  old  clerk  in  the  office. 

"  All  right,"  said  Paul. 

"  Here  's  a  peg  to  hang  your  cap  on.  Here  are  your 
entry  ledgers.  Mr.  Pappleworth  won't  be  long." 

And  the  thin  young  man  stalked  away  with  long,  busy 
strides  over  the  hollow  wooden  floor. 

After  a  minute  or  two  Paul  went  down  and  stood  in 
the  door  of  the  glass  office.  The  old  clerk  in  the  smoking- 
cap  looked  down  over  the  rim  of  his  spectacles. 

"  Good-morning,"  he  said,  kindly  and  impressively. 
"  You  want  the  letters  for  the  Spiral  department, 
Thomas?" 

Paul  resented  being  called  "  Thomas."  But  he  took 
the  letters  and  returned  to  his  dark  place,  where  the 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  129 

counter  made  an  angle,  where  the  great  parcel-rack  came 
to  an  end,  and  where  there  were  three  doors  in  the  corner. 
He  sat  on  a  high  stool  and  read  the  letters  —  those  whose 
handwriting  was  not  too  difficult.  They  ran  as  follows : 

"  Will  you  please  send  me  at  once  a  pair  of  lady's  silk 
spiral  thigh-hose,  without  feet,  such  as  I  had  from  you 
last  year;  length,  thigh  to  knee,"  etc.  Or,  "  Major  Cham- 
berlain wishes  to  repeat  his  previous  order  for  a  silk  non- 
elastic  suspensory  bandage." 

Many  of  these  letters,  some  of  them  in  French  or  Nor- 
wegian, were  a  great  puzzle  to  the  boy.  He  sat  on  his 
stool  nervously  awaiting  the  arrival  of  his  "  boss."  He 
suffered  tortures  of  shyness  when,  at  half-past  eight,  the 
factory  girls  for  upstairs  trooped  past  him. 

Mr.  Pappleworth  arrived,  chewing  a  chlorodyne  gum, 
at  about  twenty  to  nine,  when  all  the  other  men  were 
at  work.  He  was  a  thin,  sallow  man  with  a  red  nose, 
quick,  staccato,  and  smartly  but  stiffly  dressed.  He  was 
about  thirty-six  years  old.  There  was  something  rather 
66  doggy,"  rather  smart,  rather  'cute  and  shrewd,  and 
something  warm,  and  something  slightly  contemptible 
about  him. 

"  You  my  new  lad  ?  "  he  said. 

Paul  stood  up  and  said  he  was. 

"Fetched  the  letters?" 

Mr.  Pappleworth  gave  a  chew  to  his  gum. 

"  Yes." 

"Copied  'em?" 

"  No." 

"  Well,  come  on  then,  let 's  look  slippy.  Changed  your 
coat?" 

"  No." 

"  You  want  to  bring  an  old  coat  and  leave  it  here." 
He  pronounced  the  last  words  with  the  chlorodyne  gum 
between  his  side  teeth.  He  vanished  into  darkness  behind 
the  great  parcel-rack,  reappeared  coatless,  turning  up  a 
smart  striped  shirt-cuff  over  a  thin  and  hairy  arm.  Then 
he  slipped  into  his  coat.  Paul  noticed  how  thin  he  was, 


130  Sons  and  Lovers 

and  that  his  trousers  were  in  folds  behind.  He  seized  a 
stool,  dragged  it  beside  the  boy's,  and  sat  down. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said. 

Paul  took  a  seat. 

Mr.  Pappleworth  was  very  close  to  him.  The  man 
seized  the  letters,  snatched  a  long  entry-book  out  of  a 
rack  in  front  of  him,  flung  it  open,  seized  a  pen,  and  said: 

"  Now  look  here.  You  want  to  copy  these  letters  in 
here."  He  sniffed  twice,  gave  a  quick  chew  at  his  gum, 
stared  fixedly  at  a  letter,  then  went  very  still  and  ab- 
sorbed, and  wrote  the  entry  rapidly,  in  a  beautiful  flour- 
ishing hand.  He  glanced  quickly  at  Paul. 

"See  that?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Think  you  can  do  it  all  right?  " 

"Yes."   * 

"  All  right  then,  let 's  see  you." 

He  sprang  off  his  stool.  Paul  took  a  pen.  Mr.  Papple- 
worth disappeared.  Paul  rather  liked  copying  the  letters, 
but  he  wrote  slowly,  laboriously,  and  exceedingly  badly. 
He  was  doing  the  fourth  letter,  and  feeling  quite  busy 
and  happy,  when  Mr.  Pappleworth  reappeared. 

"  Now  then,  how'r'  yer  getting  on?    Done  'em?  " 

He  leaned  over  the  boy's  shoulder,  chewing,  and  smelling 
of  chlorodyne. 

"  Strike  my  bob,  lad,  but  you  're  a  beautiful  writer !  " 
he  exclaimed  satirically.  "  Ne'er  mind,  how  many  h'  yer 
done?  Only  three !  I  'd  'a'  eaten  'em.  Get  on,  my  lad,  an' 
put  numbers  on  'em.  Here,  look !  Get  on !  " 

Paul  ground  away  at  the  letters,  whilst  Mr.  Papple- 
worth fussed  over  various  jobs.  Suddenly  the  boy  started 
as  a  shrill  whistle  sounded  near  his  ear.  Mr.  Pappleworth 
came,  took  a  plug  out  of  a  pipe,  and  said,  in  an  amazingly 
cross  and  bossy  voice  : 

"Yes?" 

Paul  heard  a  faint  voice,  like  a  woman's,  out  of  the 
mouth  of  the  tube.  He  gazed  in  wonder,  never  having 
seen  a  speaking-tube  before. 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  131 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Pappleworth  disagreeably  into  the 
tube,  "  you  'd  better  get  some  of  your  back  work  done, 
then."  ' 

Again  the  woman's  tiny  voice  was  heard,  sounding 
pretty  and  cross. 

"  I  've  not  time  to  stand  here  while  you  talk,"  said  Mr. 
Pappleworth,  and  he  pushed  the  plug  into  the  tube. 

"  Come,  my  lad,"  he  said  imploringly  to  Paul,  "  there  's 
Polly  crying  out  for  them  orders.  Can't  you  buck  up  a 
bit  ?  Here,  come  out !  " 

He  took  the  book,  to  Paul's  immense  chagrin,  and  began 
the  copying  himself.  He  worked  quickly  and  well.  This 
done,  he  seized  some  strips  of  long  yellow  paper,  about 
three  inches  wide,  and  made  out  the  day's  orders  for  the 
work-girls. 

"  You  'd  better  watch  me,"  he  said  to  Paul,  working  all 
the  while  rapidly.  Paul  watched  the  weird  little  draw- 
ings of  legs,  and  thighs,  and  ankles,  with  the  strokes  across 
and  the  numbers,  and  the  few  brief  directions  which  his 
chief  made  upon  the  yellow  paper.  Then  Mr.  Papple- 
worth finished  and  jumped  up. 

"  Come  on  with  me,"  he  said,  and  the  yellow  papers 
flying  in  his  hands,  he  dashed  through  a  door  and  down 
some  stairs,  into  the  basement  where  the  gas  was  burning. 
They  crossed  the  cold,  damp  storeroom,  then  a  long, 
dreary  room  with  a  long  table  on  trestles,  into  a  smaller, 
cosy  apartment,  not  very  high,  which  had  been  built  on  to 
the  main  building.  In  this  room  a  small  woman  with  a 
red  serge  blouse,  and  her  black  hair  done  on  top  of  her 
head,  was  waiting  like  a  proud  little  bantam. 

"  Here  y'  are !  "  said  Pappleworth. 

"  I  think  it  is  '  here  you  are ! '  "  exclaimed  Polly.  "  The 
girls  have  been  here  nearly  half  an  hour  waiting.  Just 
think  of  the  time  wasted !  " 

"  You  think  of  getting  your  work  done  and  not  talking 
so  much,"  said  Mr.  Pappleworth.  "  You  could  ha'  been 
finishing  off." 

"  You  know  quite  well  we  finished  everything  off  on 


132  Sons  and  Lovers 

Saturday !  "  cried  Polly,  flying  at  him,  her  dark  eyes 
flashing. 

"  Tu-tu-tu-tu-terterter !  "  he  mocked.  "  Here  's  your 
new  lad.  Don't  ruin  him  as  you  did  the  last." 

"  '  As  we  did  the  last !  '  "  repeated  Polly.  "  Yes,  we 
do  a  lot  of  ruining,  we  do.  My  word,  a  lad  would  take 
some  ruining  after  he  'd  been  with  you." 

"  It  's  time  for  work  now,  not  for  talk,"  said  Mr. 
Pappleworth  severely  and  coldly. 

"  It  was  time  for  work  some  time  back,"  said  Polly, 
marching  away  with  her  head  in  the  air.  She  was  an 
erect  little  body  of  forty. 

In  that  room  were  two  round  spiral  machines  on  the 
bench  under  the  window.  Through  the  inner  doorway  was 
another,  longer  room,  with  six  more  machines.  A  little 
group  of  girls,  nicely  dressed  and  in  white  aprons,  stood 
talking  together. 

"Have  you  nothing  else  to  do  but  talk?"  said  Mr. 
Pappleworth. 

"  Only  wait  for  you,"  said  one  handsome  girl,  laughing. 

"  Well,  get  on,  get  on,"  he  said.  "  Come  on,  my  lad. 
You  '11  know  your  road  down  here  again." 

And  Paul  ran  upstairs  after  his  chief.  He  was  given 
some  checking  and  invoicing  to  do.  He  stood  at  the  desk, 
labouring  in  his  execrable  handwriting.  Presently  Mr. 
Jordan  came  strutting  down  from  the  glass  office  and 
stood  behind  him,  to  the  boy's  great  discomfort.  Sud- 
denly a  red  and  fat  finger  was  thrust  on  the  form  he 
was  filling  in. 

"  Mr.  J.  A.  Bates,  Esquire !  "  exclaimed  the  cross  voice 
just  behind  his  ear. 

Paul  looked  at  "  Mr.  J.  A.  Bates,  Esquire  "  in  his  own 
vile  writing,  and  wondered  what  was  the  matter  now. 

"  Did  n't  they  teach  you  any  better  than  that  while  they 
were  at  it?  If  you  put  '  Mr.'  you  don't  put  '  Esquire  '  — 
a  man  can't  be  both  at  once." 

The  boy  regretted  his  too-much  generosity  in  dispos- 
ing of  honours,  hesitated,  and  with  trembling  fingers, 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  133 

scratched  out  the  "  Mr."  Then  all  at  once  Mr.  Jordan 
snatched  away  the  invoice. 

"  Make  another !  Are  you  going  to  send  that  to  a 
gentleman?  "  And  he  tore  up  the  blue  form  irritably. 

Paul,  his  ears  red  with  shame,  began  again.  Still  Mr. 
Jordan  watched. 

"  I  don't  know  what  they  do  teach  in  school.  You  '11 
have  to  write  better  than  that.  Lads  learn  nothing  now- 
adays, but  how  to  recite  poetry  and  play  the  fiddle. 
Have  you  seen  his  writing?  "  he  asked  of  Mr.  Papple- 
worth. 

"  Yes ;  prime,  is  n't  it  ?  "  replied  Mr.  Pappleworth 
indifferently. 

Mr.  Jordan  gave  a  little  grunt,  not  unamiable.  Paul 
divined  that  his  master's  bark  was  worse  than  his  bite. 
Indeed,  the  little  manufacturer,  although  he  spoke  bad 
English,  was  quite  gentleman  enough  to  leave  his  men 
alone  and  to  take  no  notice  of  trifles.  But  he  knew  he 
did  not  look  like  the  boss  and  owner  of  the  show,  so  he 
had  to  play  his  role  of  proprietor  at  first,  to  put  things 
on  a  right  footing. 

"  Let  's  see,  what  's  your  name  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Papple- 
worth of  the  boy. 

"  Paul  Morel." 

It  is  curious  that  children  suffer  so  much  at  having  to 
pronounce  their  own  names. 

"  Paul  Morel,  is  it?  All  right,  you  Paul-Morel  through 
them  things  there,  and  then  —  " 

Mr.  Pappleworth  subsided  on  to  a  stool,  and  began 
writing.  A  girl  came  up  from  out  of  a  door  just  behind, 
put  some  newly  pressed  elastic  web  appliances  on  the 
counter,  and  returned.  Mr.  Pappleworth  picked  up  the 
whitey-blue  knee-band,  examined  it,  and  its  yellow  order- 
paper  quickly,  and  put  it  on  one  side.  Next  was  a  flesh- 
pink  "  leg."  He  went  through  the  few  things,  wrote  out 
a  couple  of  orders,  and  called  to  Paul  to  accompany  him. 
This  time  they  went  through  the  door  whence  the  girl  had 
emerged.  There  Paul  found  himself  at  the  top  of  a  little 


134  Sons  and  Lovers 

wooden  flight  of  steps,  and  below  him  saw  a  room  with 
windows  round  two  sides,  and  at  the  farther  end  half  a 
dozen  girls  sitting  bending  over  the  benches  in  the  light 
from  the  window,  sewing.  They  were  singing  together 
"  Two  Little  Girls  in  Blue."  Hearing  the  door  opened, 
they  all  turned  round,  to  see  Mr.  Pappleworth  and  Paul 
looking  down  on  them  from  the  far  end  of  the  room.  They 
stopped  singing. 

"  Can't  you  make  a  bit  less  row?  "  said  Mr.  Papple- 
worth. "  Folk  '11  think  we  keep  cats." 

A  hunchback  woman  on  a  high  stool  turned  her  long, 
rather  heavy  face  towards  Mr.  Pappleworth,  and  said,  in 
a  contralto  voice: 

"  They  Jre  all  tom-cats  then." 

In  vain  Mr.  Pappleworth  tried  to  be  impressive  for 
Paul's  benefit.  He  descended  the  steps  into  the  fmishing- 
off  room,  and  went  to  the  hunchback  Fanny.  She  had  such 
a  short  body  on  her  high  stool  that  her  head,  with  its 
great  bands  of  bright  brown  hair,  seemed  over  large,  as 
did  her  pale,  heavy  face.  She  wore  a  dress  of  green-black 
cashmere,  and  her  wrists,  coming  out  of  the  narrow  cuffs, 
were  thin  and  flat,  as  she  put  down  her  work  nervously. 
He  showed  her  something  that  was  wrong  with  a  knee- 
cap. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  you  need  n't  come  blaming  it  on  to 
me.  It 's  not  my  fault."  Her  colour  mounted  to  her 
cheek. 

"  I  never  said  it  was  your  fault.  Will  you  do  as  I  tell 
you?  "  replied  Mr.  Pappleworth  shortly. 

"  You  don't  say  it 's  my  fault,  but  you  'd  like  to  make 
out  as  it  was,"  the  hunchback  woman  cried,  almost  in 
tears.  Then  she  snatched  the  knee-cap  from  her  "  boss," 
saying :  "  Yes,  I  '11  do  it  for  you,  but  you  need  n't  be 
snappy." 

"  Here  's  your  new  lad,"  said  Mr.  Pappleworth. 

Fanny  turned,  smiling  very  gently  on  Paul. 

"Oh!"  she  said. 

"  Yes ;   don't  make  a  softy  of  him  between  you." 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  135 

"  It 's  not  us  as  'ud  make  a  softy  of  him,"  she  said 
indignantly. 

"  Come  on  then,  Paul,"  said  Mr.  Pappleworth. 

"  Au  revoy,  Paul,"  said  one  of  the  girls. 

There  was  a  titter  of  laughter.  Paul  went  out,  blushing 
deeply,  not  having  spoken  a  word. 

The  day  was  very  long.  All  morning  the  work-people 
were  coming  to  speak  to  Mr.  Pappleworth.  Paul  was 
writing  or  learning  to  make  up  parcels,  ready  for  the 
midday  post.  At  one  o'clock,  or,  rather,  at  a  quarter  to 
one,  Mr.  Pappleworth  disappeared  to  catch  his  train :  he 
lived  in  the  suburbs.  At  one  o'clock,  Paul,  feeling  very 
lost,  took  his  dinner-basket  down  into  the  stockroom  in 
the  basement,  that  had  the  long  table  on  trestles,  and  ate 
his  meal  hurriedly,  alone  in  that  cellar  of  gloom  and  deso- 
lation. Then  he  went  out  of  doors.  The  brightness  and 
the  freedom  of  the  streets  made  him  feel  adventurous  and 
happy.  But  at  two  o'clock  he  was  back  in  the  corner  of 
the  big  room.  Soon  the  work-girls  went  trooping  past, 
making  remarks.  It  was  the  commoner  girls  who  worked 
upstairs  at  the  heavy  tasks  of  truss-making  and  the  finish- 
ing of  artificial  limbs.  He  waited  for  Mr.  Pappleworth, 
not  knowing  what  to  do,  sitting  scribbling  on  the  yellow 
order-paper.  Mr.  Pappleworth  came  at  twenty  minutes 
to  three.  Then  he  sat  and  gossiped  with  Paul,  treating 
the  boy  entirely  as  an  equal,  even  in  age. 

In  the  afternoon  there  was  never  very  much  to  do, 
unless  it  were  near  the  week-end,  and  the  accounts  had  to 
be  made  up.  At  five  o'clock  all  the  men  went  down  into 
the  dungeon  with  the  table  on  trestles,  and  there  they  had 
tea,  eating  bread-and-butter  on  the  bare,  dirty  boards, 
talking  with  the  same  kind  of  ugly  haste  and  slovenliness 
with  which  they  ate  their  meal.  And  yet  upstairs  the 
atmosphere  among  them  was  always  jolly  and  clear.  The 
cellar  and  the  trestles  affected  them. 

After  tea,  when  all  the  gases  were  lighted,  work  went 
more  briskly.  There  was  the  big  evening  post  to  get  off. 
The  hose  came  up  warm  and  newly  pressed  from  the 


136  Sons  and  Lovers 

workrooms.  Paul  had  made  out  the  invoices.  Now  he  had 
the  packing  up  and  addressing  to  do,  then  he  had  to  weigh 
his  stock  of  parcels  on  the  scales.  Everywhere  voices  were 
calling  weights,  there  was  the  chink  of  metal,  the  rapid 
snapping  of  string,  the  hurrying  to  old  Mr.  Melling  for 
stamps.  And  at  last  the  postman  came  with  his  sack, 
laughing  and  jolly.  Then  everything  slacked  off,  and  Paul 
took  his  dinner-basket  and  ran  to  the  station  to  catch  the 
eight-twenty  train.  The  day  in  the  factory  was  just 
twelve  hours  long. 

His  mother  sat  waiting  for  him  rather  anxiously.  He 
had  to  walk  from  Keston,  so  was  not  home  until  about 
twenty  past  nine.  And  he  left  the  house  before  seven  in 
the  morning.  Mrs.  Morel  was  rather  anxious  about  his 
health.  But  she  herself  had  had  to  put  up  with  so  much 
that  she  expected  her  children  to  take  the  same  odds. 
They  must  go  through  with  what  came.  And  Paul  stayed 
at  Jordan's,  although  all  the  time  he  was  there  his  health 
suffered  from  the  darkness  and  lack  of  air  and  the  long 
hours. 

He  came  in  pale  and  tired.  His  mother  looked  at  him. 
She  saw  he  was  rather  pleased,  and  her  anxiety  all 
went. 

"  Well,  and  how  was  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Ever  so  funny,  mother,"  he  replied.  "  You  don't  have 
to  work  a  bit  hard,  and  they  're  nice  with  you." 

"  And  did  you  get  on  all  right  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  they  only  say  my  writing 's  bad.  But  Mr. 
Pappleworth  —  he  's  my  man  —  said  to  Mr.  Jordan  I 
should  be  all  right.  I  'm  Spiral,  mother ;  you  must  come 
and  see.  It 's  ever  so  nice." 

Soon  he  liked  Jordan's.  Mr.  Pappleworth,  who  had  a 
certain  "  saloon  bar "  flavour  about  him,  was  always 
natural,  and  treated  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  comrade. 
Sometimes  the  "  Spiral  boss  "  was  irritable,  and  chewed 
more  lozenges  than  ever.  Even  then,  however,  he  was  not 
offensive,  but  one  of  those  people  who  hurt  themselves  by 
their  own  irritability  more  than  they  hurt  other  people. 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  137 

"  Have  n't  you  done  that  yet?  "  he  would  cry.  "  Go 
on,  be  a  month  of  Sundays." 

Again,  and  Paul  could  understand  him  least  then,  he 
was  jocular  and  in  high  spirits. 

"  I  'm  going  to  bring  my  little  Yorkshire  terrier  bitch 
to-morrow,"  he  said  jubilantly  to  Paul. 

"  What 's  a  Yorkshire  terrier?  " 

"Don't  know  what  a  Yorkshire  terrier  is?  Don't  know 
a  Yorkshire  —  "  Mr.  Pappleworth  was  aghast. 

"  Is  it  a  little  silky  one  —  colours  of  iron  and  rusty 
silver?" 

"  That  's  it,  my  lad.  She  's  a  gem.  She  's  had  five 
pounds'  worth  of  pups  already,  and  she  's  worth  over 
seven  pounds  herself ;  and  she  does  n't  weigh  twenty 
ounces." 

The  next  day  the  bitch  came.  She  was  a  shivering, 
miserable  morsel.  Paul  did  not  care  for  her ;  she  seemed 
so  like  a  wet  rag  that  would  never  dry.  Then  a  man 
called  for  her,  and  began  to  make  coarse  jokes.  But  Mr. 
Pappleworth  nodded  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  boy, 
and  the  talk  went  on  sot  to  voce. 

Mr.  Jordan  only  made  one  more  excursion  to  watch 
Paul,  and  then  the  only  fault  he  found  was  seeing  the  boy 
lay  his  pen  on  the  counter. 

"  Put  your  pen  in  your  ear,  if  you  're  going  to  be  a 
clerk.  Pen  in  your  ear !  "  And  one  day  he  said  to  the 
lad,  "Why  don't  you  hold  your  shoulders  straighter? 
Come  down  here,"  when  he  took  him  into  the  glass  office 
and  fitted  him  with  special  braces  for  keeping  the  shoul- 
ders square. 

But  Paul  liked  the  girls  best.  The  men  seemed  common 
and  rather  dull.  He  liked  them  all,  but  they  were  unin- 
teresting. Polly,  the  little  brisk  overseer  downstairs,  find- 
ing Paul  eating  in  the  cellar,  asked  him  if  she  could  cook 
him  anything  on  her  little  stove.  Next  day  his  mother 
gave  him  a  dish  that  could  be  heated  up.  He  took  it  into 
the  pleasant,  clean  room  to  Polly.  And  very  soon  it  grew 
to  be  an  established  custom  that  he  should  have  dinner 


138  Sons  and  Lovers 

with  her.  When  he  came  in  at  eight  in  the  morning  he 
took  his  basket  to  her,  and  when  he  came  down  at  one 
o'clock  she  had  his  dinner  ready. 

He  was  not  very  tall,  and  pale,  with  thick  chestnut  hair, 
irregular  features,  and  a  wide,  full  mouth.  She  was  like 
a  small  bird.  He  often  called  her  a  "  robinet."  Though 
naturally  rather  quiet,  he  would  sit  and  chatter  with  her 
for  hours,  telling  her  about  his  home.  The  girls  all  liked 
to  hear  him  talk.  They  often  gathered  in  a  little  circle 
while  he  sat  on  a  bench^  and  held  forth  to  them,  laughing. 
Some  of  them  regarded  him  as  a  curious  little  creature, 
so  serious,  yet  so  bright  and  jolly,  and  always  so  delicate 
in  his  way  with  them.  They  all  liked  him,  and  he  adored 
them.  Polly  he  felt  he  belonged  to.  Then  Connie,  with 
her  mane  of  red  hair,  her  face  of  apple-blossom,  her 
murmuring  voice,  such  a  lady  in  her  shabby  black  frock, 
appealed  to  his  romantic  side. 

"  When  you  sit  winding,"  he  said,  "  it  looks  as  if  you 
were  spinning  at  a  spinning-wheel  —  it  looks  ever  so  nice. 
You  remind  me  of  Elaine  in  the  '  Idylls  of  the  King.'  I  'd 
draw  you  if  I  could." 

And  she  glanced  at  him  blushing  shyly.  And  later  on 
he  had  a  sketch  he  prized  very  much:  Connie  sitting  on 
the  stool  before  the  wheel,  her  flowing  mane  of  red  hair 
on  her  rusty  black  frock,  her  red  mouth  shut  and  serious, 
running  the  scarlet  thread  off  the  hank  on  to  the  reel. 

With  Louie,  handsome  and  brazen,  who  always  seemed 
to  thrust  her  hip  at  him,  he  usually  joked. 

Emma  was  rather  plain,  rather  old,  and  condescending. 
But  to  condescend  to  him  made  her  happy,  and  he  did 
not  mind. 

"How  do  you  put  needles  in?  "  he  asked. 

"  Go  away  and  don't  bother." 

"  But  I  ought  to  know  how  to  put  needles  in." 

She  ground  at  her  machine  all  the  while  steadily. 

"  There  are  many  things  you  ought  to  know,"  she 
replied. 

"  Tell  me,  then,  how  to  stick  needles  in  the  machine." 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  139 

"  Oh,  the  boy,  what  a  nuisance  he  is !  Why,  this  is  how 
you  do  it." 

He  watched  her  attentively.  Suddenly  a  whistle  piped. 
Then  Polly  appeared,  and  said  in  a  clear  voice : 

"  Mr.  Pappleworth  wants  to  know  how  much  longer 
you  're  going  to  be  down  here  playing  with  the  girls, 
Paul." 

Paul  flew  upstairs,  calling  "  Good-bye !  "  and  Emma 
drew  herself  up. 

"  It  was  n't  me  who  wanted  him  to  play  with  the 
machine,"  she  said. 

As  a  rule,  when  all  the  girls  came  back  at  two  o'clock, 
he  ran  upstairs  to  Fanny,  the  hunchback,  in  the  finishing- 
off  room.  Mr.  Pappleworth  did  not  appear  till  twenty  to 
three,  and  he  often  found  his  boy  sitting  beside  Fanny, 
talking,  or  drawing,  or  singing  with  the  girls. 

Often,  after  a  minute's  hesitation,  Fanny  would  begin 
to  sing.  She  had  a  fine  contralto  voice.  Everybody  joined 
in  the  chorus,  and  it  went  well.  Paul  was  not  at  all  em- 
barrassed, after  a  while,  sitting  in  the  room  with  the 
half  a  dozen  work-girls. 

At  the  end  of  the  song  Fanny  would  say: 

"  I  know  you  've  been  laughing  at  me." 

"  Don't  be  so  soft,  Fanny !  "  cried  one  of  the  girls. 

Once  there  was  mention  of  Connie's  red  hair. 

"  Fanny's  is  better,  to  my  fancy,"  said  Emma. 

"  You  need  n't  try  to  make  a  fool  of  me,"  said  Fanny > 
flushing  deeply. 

"  No,  but  she  has,  Paul ;   she  's  got  beautiful  hair." 

"  It 's  a  treat  of  a  colour,"  said  he.  "  That  coldish 
colour,  like  earth,  and  yet  shiny.  It 's  like  bog-water." 

"  Goodness  me !  "  exclaimed  one  girl,  laughing. 

"  How  I  do  but  get  criticized,"  said  Fanny. 

"  But  you  should  see  it  down,  Paul,"  cried  Emma 
earnestly.  "  It 's  simply  beautiful.  Put  it  down  for  him, 
Fanny,  if  he  wants  something  to  paint." 

Fanny  would  not,  and  yet  she  wanted  to. 

"  Then  I  '11  take  it  down  myself,"  said  the  lad. 


140  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Well,  you  can  if  you  like,"  said  Fanny. 

And  he  carefully  took  the  pins  out  of  the  knot,  and  the 
rush  of  hair,  of  uniform  dark  brown,  slid  over  the  humped 
back. 

"  What  a  lovely  lot !  "  he  exclaimed. 

The  girls  watched.  There  was  silence.  The  youth 
shook  the  hair  loose  from  the  coil. 

"  It 's  splendid !  "  he  said,  smelling  its  perfume.  "  I  '11 
bet  it 's  worth  pounds." 

"  I  '11  leave  it  you  when  I  die,  Paul,"  said  Fanny,  half 
joking. 

"  You  look  just  like  anybody  else,  sitting  drying  their 
hair,"  said  one  of  the  girls  to  the  long-legged  hunchback. 

Poor  Fanny  was  morbidly  sensitive,  always  imagining 
insults.  Polly  was  curt  and  business-like.  The  two  de- 
partments were  for  ever  at  war,  and  Paul  was  always 
finding  Fanny  in  tears.  Then  he  was  made  the  recipient 
of  all  her  woes,  and  he  had  to  plead  her  cause  with  Polly. 

So  the  time  went  along  happily  enough.  The  factory 
had  a  homely  feel.  No  one  was  rushed  or  driven.  Paul 
always  enjoyed  it  when  the  work  got  faster,  towards  post- 
time,  and  all  the  men  united  in  labour.  He  liked  to  watch 
his  fellow  clerks  at  work.  The  man  was  the  work  and 
the  work  was  the  man,  one  thing,  for  the  time  being. 
It  was  different  with  the  girls.  The  real  woman  never 
seemed  to  be  there  at  the  task,  but  as  if  left  out,  waiting. 

From  the  train  going  home  at  night  he  used  to  watch 
the  lights  of  the  town,  sprinkled  thick  on  the  hills,  fusing 
together  in  a  blaze  in  the  valleys.  He  felt  rich  in  life  and 
happy.  Drawing  farther  off,  there  was  a  patch  of  lights 
at  Bulwell  like  myriad  petals  shaken  to  the  ground  from 
the  shed  stars ;  and  beyond  was  the  red  glare  of  the  fur- 
naces, playing  like  hot  breath  on  the  clouds. 

He  had  to  walk  two  and  more  miles  from  Keston  home, 
up  two  long  hills,  down  two  short  hills.  He  was  often 
tired,  and  he  counted  the  lamps  climbing  the  hill  above 
him,  how  many  more  to  pass.  And  from  the  hill-top,  on 
pitch-dark  nights,  he  looked  round  on  the  villages  five 


Paul  Launches  into  Life  141 

or  six  miles  away,  that  shone  like  swarms  of  glittering 
living  things,  almost  a  heaven  against  his  feet.  Marlpool 
and  Heanor  scattered  the  far-off  darkness  with  brilliance. 
And  occasionally  the  black  valley  space  between  was 
traced,  violated  by  a  great  train  rushing  south  to  London 
or  north  to  Scotland.  The  trains  roared  by  like  projec- 
tiles level  on  the  darkness,  fuming  and  burning,  making 
the  valley  clang  with  their  passage.  They  were  gone, 
and  the  lights  of  the  towns  and  villages  glittered  in  silence. 

And  then  he  came  to  the  corner  at  home,  which  faced 
the  other  side  of  the  night.  The  ash-tree  seemed  a  friend 
now.  His  mother  rose  with  gladness  as  he  entered.  He 
put  his  eight  shillings  proudly  on  the  table. 

"  It  '11  help,  mother?  "  he  asked  wistfully. 

"  There 's  precious  little  left,"  she  answered,  "  after 
your  ticket  and  dinners  and  such  are  taken  off." 

Then  he  told  her  the  budget  of  the  day.  His  life- 
story,  like  an  Arabian  Nights,  was  told  night  after  night 
to  his  mother.  It  was  almost  as  if  it  were  her  own  life. 


CHAPTER    VI 

DEATH    IN    THE    FAMILY 

ARTHUR  MOREL  was  growing  up.  He  was  a  quick, 
careless,  impulsive  boy,  a  good  deal  like  his  father. 
He  hated  study,  made  a  great  moan  if  he  had  to  work, 
and  escaped  as  soon  as  possible  to  his  sport  again. 

In  appearance  he  remained  the  flower  of  the  family, 
being  well  made,  graceful,  and  full  of  life.  His  dark 
brown  hair  and  fresh  colouring,  and  his  exquisite  dark 
blue  eyes  shaded  with  long  lashes,  together  with  his 
generous  manner  and  fiery  temper,  made  him  a  favourite. 
But  as  he  grew  older  his  temper  became  uncertain.  He 
flew  into  rages  over  nothing,  seemed  unbearably  raw  and 
irritable. 

His  mother,  whom  he  loved,  wearied  of  him  sometimes. 
He  thought  only  of  himself.  When  he  wanted  amuse- 
ment, all  that  stood  in  his  way  he  hated,  even  if  it  were 
she.  When  he  was  in  trouble,  he  moaned  to  her  cease- 
lessly. 

"  Goodness,  boy !  "  she  said,  when  he  groaned  about  a 
master  who,  he  said,  hated  him,  "  if  you  don't  like  it, 
alter  it,  and  if  you  can't  alter  it,  put  up  with  it." 

And  his  father,  whom  he  had  loved  and  who  had  wor- 
shipped him,  he  came  to  detest.  As  he  grew  older  Morel 
fell  into  a  slow  ruin.  His  body,  which  had  been  beautiful 
in  movement  and  in  being,  shrank,  did  not  seem  to  ripen 
with  the  years,  but  to  get  mean  and  rather  despicable. 
There  came  over  him  a  look  of  meanness  and  of  paltriness. 
And  when  the  mean-looking  elderly  man  bullied  or  ordered 
the  boy  about,  Arthur  was  furious.  Moreover,  Morel's 
manners  got  worse  and  worse,  his  habits  somewhat  dis- 
gusting. When  the  children  were  growing  up  and  in  the 


Death  in  the  Family  143 

crucial  stage  of  adolescence,  the  father  was  like  some  ugly 
irritant  to  their  souls.  His  manners  in  the  house  were 
the  same  as  he  used  among  the  colliers  down  pit. 

"  Dirty  nuisance!  "  Arthur  would  cry,  jumping  up  and 
going  straight  out  of  the  house  when  his  father  disgusted 
him.  And  Morel  persisted  the  more  because  his  children 
hated  it.  He  seemed  to  take  a  kind  of  satisfaction  in  dis- 
gusting them,  and  driving  them  nearly  mad,  while  they 
were  so  irritably  sensitive  at  the  age  of  fourteen  or  fifteen. 
So  that  Arthur,  who  was  growing  up  when  his  father  was 
degenerate  and  elderly,  hated  him  worst  of  all. 

Then,  sometimes,  the  father  would  seem  to  feel  the  con- 
temptuous hatred  of  his  children. 

"  There  's  not  a  man  tries  harder  for  his  family !  "  he 
would  shout.  "  He  does  his  best  for  them,  and  then  gets 
treated  like  a  dog.  But  I  'm  not  going  to  stand  it,  I  tell 
you!" 

But  for  the  threat  and  the  fact  that  he  did  not  try  so 
hard  as  he  imagined,  they  would  have  felt  sorry.  As  it 
was,  the  battle  now  went  on  nearly  all  between  father  and 
children,  he  persisting  in  his  dirty  and  disgusting  ways, 
just  to  assert  his  independence.  They  loathed  him. 

Arthur  was  so  inflamed  and  irritable  at  last,  that  when 
he  won  a  scholarship  for  the  Grammar  School  in  Not- 
tingham, his  mother  decided  to  let  him  live  in  town,  with 
one  of  her  sisters,  and  only  come  home  at  week-ends. 

Annie  was  still  a  junior  teacher  in  the  Board-school, 
earning  about  four  shillings  a  week.  But  soon  she  would 
have  fifteen  shillings,  since  she  had  passed  her  examina- 
tion, and  there  would  be  financial  peace  in  the  house. 

Mrs.  Morel  clung  now  to  Paul.  He  was  quiet  and  not 
brilliant.  But  still  he  stuck  to  his  painting,  and  still  he 
stuck  to  his  mother.  Everything  he  did  was  for  her.  She 
waited  for  his  coming  home  in  the  evening,  and  then  she 
unburdened  herself  of  all  she  had  pondered,  or  of  all  that 
had  occurred  to  her  during  the  day.  He  sat  and  listened 
with  his  earnestness.  The  two  shared  lives. 

William  was   engaged  now  to   his   brunette,   and  had 


144  Sons  and  Lovers 

bought  her  an  engagement  ring  that  cost  eight  guineas. 
The  children  gasped  at  such  a  fabulous  price. 

"  Eight  guineas  !  "  said  Morel.  "  More  fool  him !  If 
he  'd  gen  me  some  on  't,  it  'ud  ha'  looked  better  on  'im." 

"  Given  you  some  of  it !  "  cried  Mrs.  Morel.  "  Why 
give  you  some  of  it !  " 

She  remembered  Tie  had  bought  no  engagement  ring  at 
all,  and  she  preferred  William,  who  was  not  mean,  if  he 
were  foolish.  But  now  the  young  man  talked  only  of  the 
dances  to  which  he  went  with  his  betrothed,  and  the  dif- 
ferent resplendent  clothes  she  wore ;  or  he  told  his  mother 
with  glee  how  they  went  to  the  theatre  like  great  swells. 

He  wanted  to  bring  the  girl  home.  Mrs.  Morel  said 
she  should  come  at  the  Christmas.  This  time  William 
arrived  with  a  lady,  but  with  no  presents.  Mrs.  Morel 
had  prepared  supper.  Hearing  footsteps,  she  rose  and 
went  to  the  door.  William  entered. 

"  Hello,  mother !  "  He  kissed  her  hastily,  then  stood 
aside  to  present  a  tall,  handsome  girl,  who  was  wearing  a 
costume  of  fine  black-and-white  check,  and  furs. 

"  Here  's  Gyp !  " 

Miss  Western  held  out  her  hand  and  showed  her  teeth 
in  a  small  smile. 

"  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Morel !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  hungry,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  Oh,  no,  we  had  dinner  in  the  train.  Have  you  got  my 
gloves,  Chubby?" 

William  Morel,  big  and  raw-boned,  looked  at  her 
quickly. 

"How  should  I?"  he  said. 

"  Then  I  've  lost  them.     Don't  be  cross  with  me." 

A  frown  went  over  his  face,  but  he  said  nothing.  She 
glanced  round  the  kitchen.  It  was  small  and  curious  to 
her,  with  its  glittering  kissing-bunch,  its  evergreens  behind 
the  pictures,  its  wooden  chairs  and  little  deal  table.  At 
that  moment  Morel  came  in. 

"  Hello,  dad !  " 

"  Hello,  my  son !    Tha  's  let  on  me !  " 


Death  in  the  Family  145 

The  two  shook  hands,  and  William  presented  the  lady. 
She  gave  the  same  smile  that  showed  her  teeth. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Morel?  " 

Morel  bowed  obsequiously. 

"  I  'm  very  well,  and  I  hope  so  are  you.  You  must  make 
yourself  very  welcome." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  she  replied,  rather  amused. 

"  You  will  like  to  go  upstairs,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  If  you  don't  mind ;  but  not  if  it  is  any  trouble  to 
you." 

"  It  is  no  trouble.  Annie  will  take  you.  Walter,  carry 
up  this  box." 

"  And  don't  be  an  hour  dressing  yourself  up,"  said 
William  to  his  betrothed. 

Annie  took  a  brass  candlestick,  and,  too  shy  almost  to 
speak,  preceded  the  young  lady  to  the  front  bedroom, 
which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morel  had  vacated  for  her.  It,  too, 
was  small  and  cold  by  candle-light.  The  colliers'  wives 
only  lit  fires  in  bedrooms  in  case  of  extreme  illness. 

"  Shall  I  unstrap  the  box?  "  asked  Annie. 

"  Oh,  thank  you  very  much !  " 

Annie  played  the  part  of  maid,  then  went  downstairs 
for  hot  water. 

"  I  think  she  's  rather  tired,  mother,"  said  William. 
"It 's  a  beastly  journey,  and  we  had  such  a  rush." 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  give  her?  "  asked  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  Oh  no,  she  '11  be  all  right." 

But  there  was  a  chill  in  the  atmosphere.  After  half  an 
hour  Miss  Western  came  down,  having  put  on  a  purplish- 
coloured  dress,  very  fine  for  the  collier's  kitchen. 

"  I  told  you  you  'd  no  need  to  change,"  said  William 
to  her. 

"  Oh,  Chubby !  "  Then  she  turned  with  that  sweetish 
smile  to  Mrs.  Morel.  "  Don't  you  think  he  's  always 
grumbling,  Mrs.  Morel?  " 

"  Is  he?  "  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "  That 's  not  very  nice  of 
him." 

"It  isn't,  really!" 


146  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  You  are  cold,"  said  the  mother.  "  Won't  you  come 
near  the  fire?  " 

Morel  jumped  out  of  his  arm-chair. 

"  Come  and  sit  you  here !  "  he  cried.  "  Come  and  sit 
you  here !  " 

"  No,  dad,  keep  your  own  chair.  Sit  on  the  sofa, 
Gyp,"  said  William. 

"  No,  no !  "  cried  Morel.  "  This  cheer  's  warmest. 
Come  and  sit  here,  Miss  Wesson." 

"  Thank  you  so  much,"  said  the  girl,  seating  herself  in 
the  collier's  arm-chair,  the  place  of  honour.  She  shivered, 
feeling  the  warmth  of  the  kitchen  penetrate  her. 

"  Fetch  me  a  hanky,  Chubby  dear !  "  she  said,  putting 
up  her  mouth  to  him,  and  using  the  same  intimate  tone  as 
if  they  were  alone;  which  made  the  rest  of  the  family 
feel  as  if  they  ought  not  to  be  present.  The  young  lady 
evidently  did  not  realize  them  as  people:  they  were 
creatures  to  her  for  the  present.  William  winced. 

In  such  a  household,  in  Streatham,  Miss  Western  would 
have  been  a  lady  condescending  to  her  inferiors.  These 
people  were,  to  her,  certainly  clownish  —  in  short,  the 
working  classes.  How  was  she  to  adjust  herself? 

"  I  '11  go,"  said  Annie. 

Miss  Western  took  no  notice,  as  if  a  servant  had 
spoken.  But  when  the  girl  came  downstairs  again  with 
the  handkerchief,  she  said,  "  Oh,  thank  you !  "  in  a  gra- 
cious way. 

She  sat  and  talked  about  the  dinner  on  the  train,  which 
had  been  so  poor ;  about  London,  about  dances.  She  was 
really  very  nervous,  and  chattered  from  fear.  Morel  sat 
all  the  time  smoking  his  thick  twist  tobacco,  watching  her, 
and  listening  to  her  glib  London  speech,  as  he  puffed. 
Mrs.  Morel,  dressed  up  in  her  best  black  silk  blouse, 
answered  quietly  and  rather  briefly.  The  three  children 
sat  round  in  silence  and  admiration.  Miss  Western  was 
the  princess.  Everything  of  the  best  was  got  out  for  her: 
the  best  cups,  the  best  spoons,  the  best  tablecloth,  the  best 
coffee-jug.  The  children  thought  she  must  find  it  quite 


Death  in  the  Family  147 

grand.  She  felt  strange,  not  able  to  realize  the  people, 
not  knowing  how  to  treat  them.  William  joked,  and  was 
slightly  uncomfortable. 

At  about  ten  o'clock  he  said  to  her: 

"  Are  n't  you  tired,  Gyp?  " 

"  Rather,  Chubby,"  she  answered,  at  once  in  the  inti- 
mate tones  and  putting  her  head  slightly  on  one  side. 

"  I  '11  light  her  the  candle,  mother,"  he  said. 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  mother. 

Miss  Western  stood  up,  held  out  her  hand  to  Mrs. 
Morel. 

"  Good-night,  Mrs.  Morel,"  she  said. 

Paul  sat  at  the  boiler,  letting  the  water  run  from  the 
tap  into  a  stone  beer-bottle.  Annie  swathed  the  bottle 
in  an  old  flannel  pit-singlet,  and  kissed  her  mother  good- 
night. She  was  to  share  the  room  with  the  lady,  because 
the  house  was  full. 

"  You  wait  a  minute,"  said  Mrs.  Morel  to  Annie.  And 
Annie  sat  nursing  the  hot-water  bottle.  Miss  Western 
shook  hands  all  round,  to  everybody's  discomfort,  and 
took  her  departure,  preceded  by  William.  In  five  minutes 
he  was  downstairs  again.  His  heart  was  rather  sore;  he 
did  not  know  why.  He  talked  very  little  till  everybody 
had  gone  to  bed,  but  himself  and  his  mother.  Then  he 
stood  with  his  legs  apart,  in  his  old  attitude  on  the  hearth- 
rug, and  said  hesitatingly: 

"Well,  mother?" 

"Well,  my  son?" 

She  sat  in  her  best  silk  blouse  in  the  rocking-chair, 
feeling  somehow  hurt  and  humiliated,  for  his  sake. 

"Do  you  like  her?" 

"  Yes,"  came  the  slow  answer. 

"  She  's  shy  yet,  mother.  She  's  not  used  to  it.  It 's 
different  from  her  aunt's  house,  you  know." 

"  Of  course  it  is,  my  boy ;  and  she  must  find  it 
difficult." 

"  She  does."  Then  he  frowned  swiftly.  "  If  only  she 
would  n't  put  on  her  blessed  airs !  " 


148  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  It 's  only  her  first  awkwardness,  my  boy.  She  '11  be 
all  right." 

"  That 's  it,  mother,"  he  replied  gratefully.  But  his 
brow  was  gloomy.  "  You  know,  she 's  not  like  you, 
mother.  She  's  not  serious,  and  she  can't  think." 

"  She  's  young,  my  boy." 

"  Yes ;  and  she  's  had  no  sort  of  show.  Her  mother 
died  when  she  was  a  child.  Since  then  she  's  lived  with 
her  aunt,  whom  she  can't  bear.  And  her  father  was  a 
rake.  She  's  had  no  love." 

"  No !     Well,  you  must  make  up  to  her." 

"  And  so  —  you  have  to  forgive  her  a  lot  of  things." 

"  What  do  you  have  to  forgive  her,  my  boy?  " 

"  I  dunno.  When  she  seems  shallow,  you  have  to  re- 
member she  's  never  had  anybody  to  bring  her  deeper  side 
out.  And  she  's  fearfully  fond  of  me." 

"  Anybody  can  see  that." 

"But  you  know,  mother  —  she's  —  she's  different 
from  us.  Those  sort  of  people,  like  those  she  lives 
amongst,  they  don't  seem  to  have  the  same  principles." 

"  You  must  n't  judge  too  hastily,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

But  he  seemed  uneasy  within  himself. 

In  the  morning,  however,  he  was  up  singing  and  larking 
round  the  house. 

"  Hello !  "  he  called,  sitting  on  the  stairs,  "  Are  you 
getting  up  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  her  voice  called  faintly. 

"  Merry  Christmas !  "  he  shouted  to  her. 

Her  laugh,  pretty  and  tinkling,  was  heard  in  the  bed- 
room. She  did  not  come  down  in  half  an  hour. 

"  Was  she  really  getting  up  when  she  said  she  was?  "  he 
asked  of  Annie. 

"  Yes,  she  was,"  replied  Annie. 

He  waited  awhile,  then  went  to  the  stairs  again. 

"  Happy  New  Year,"  he  called. 

"  Thank  you,  Chubby  dear !  "  came  the  laughing  voice, 
far  away. 

"  Buck  up !  "  he  implored. 


Death  in  the  Family  149 

It  was  nearly  an  hour,  and  still  he  was  waiting  for 
her.  Morel,  who  always  rose  before  six,  looked  at  the 
clock. 

"  Well,  it 's  a  winder !  "  he  exclaimed. 

The  family  had  breakfasted,  all  but  William.  He  went 
to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"  Shall  I  have  to  send  you  an  Easter  egg  up  there?  " 
he  called,  rather  crossly.  She  only  laughed.  The  family 
expected,  after  that  time  of  preparation,  something  like 
magic.  At  last  she  came,  looking  very  nice  in  a  blouse 
and  skirt. 

"  Have  you  really  been  all  this  time  getting  ready  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Chubby  dear !  That  question  is  not  permitted,  is  it, 
Mrs.  Morel?" 

She  played  the  grand  lady  at  first.  When  she  went 
with  William  to  chapel,  he  in  his  frock  coat  and  silk  hat, 
she  in  her  furs  and  London-made  costume,  Paul  and 
Arthur  and  Annie  expected  everybody  to  bow  to  the 
ground  in  admiration.  And  Morel,  standing  in  his  Sunday 
suit  at  the  end  of  the  road,  watching  the  gallant  pair  go, 
felt  he  was  the  father  of  princes  and  princesses. 

And  yet  she  was  not  so  grand.  For  a  year  now  she  had 
been  a  sort  of  secretary  or  clerk  in  a  London  office.  But 
while  she  was  with  the  Morels  she  queened  it.  She  sat  and 
let  Annie  or  Paul  wait  on  her  as  if  they  were  her  servants. 
She  treated  Mrs.  Morel  with  a  certain  glibness  and  Morel 
with  patronage.  But  after  a  day  or  so  she  began  to 
change  her  tune. 

William  always  wanted  Paul  or  Annie  to  go  along  with 
them  on  their  walks.  It  was  so  much  more  interesting. 
And  Paul  really  did  admire  "  Gipsy  "  whole-heartedly ;  in 
fact,  his  mother  scarcely  forgave  the  boy  for  the  adulation 
with  which  he  treated  the  girl. 

On  the  second  day,  when  Lily  said,  "  Oh,  Annie,  do  you 
know  where  I  left  my  muff?  "  William  replied: 

"  You  know  it  is  in  your  bedroom.  Why  do  you  ask 
Annie?  » 


150  Sons  and  Lovers 

And  Lily  went  upstairs  with  a  cross,  shut  mouth.  But 
it  angered  the  young  man  that  she  made  a  servant  of  his 
sister. 

On  the  third  evening  William  and  Lily  were  sitting 
together  in  the  parlour  by  the  fire  in  the  dark.  At 
a  quarter  to  eleven  Mrs.  Morel  was  heard  raking  the 
fire.  William  came  out  to  the  kitchen,  followed  by  his 
beloved. 

"  Is  it  as  late  as  that,  mother?  "  he  said.  She  had  been 
sitting  alone. 

"  It  is  not  late,  my  boy,  but  it  is  as  late  as  I  usually 
sit  up." 

"  Won't  you  go  to  bed,  then?  "  he  asked. 

"And  leave  you  two?  No,  my  boy,  I  don't  believe 
in  it." 

"  Can't  you  trust  us,  mother?  " 

"  Whether  I  can  or  not,  I  won't  do  it.  You  can  stay 
till  eleven  if  you  like,  and  I  can  read." 

"  Go  to  bed,  Gyp,"  he  said  to  his  girl.  "  We  won't  keep 
mater  waiting." 

"  Annie  has  left  the  candle  burning,  Lily,"  said  Mrs. 
Morel ;  "  I  think  you  will  see." 

"  Yes,  thank  you.     Good-night,  Mrs.  Morel." 

William  kissed  his  sweetheart  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
and  she  went.  He  returned  to  the  kitchen. 

"  Can't  you  trust  us,  mother?  "  he  repeated,  rather 
offended. 

"  My  boy,  I  tell  you  I  don't  believe  in  leaving  two  young 
things  like  you  alone  downstairs  when  evervone  else  is  in 
bed." 

And  he  was  forced  to  take  this  answer.  He  kissed  his 
mother  good-night. 

At  Easter  he  came  over  alone.  And  then  he  discussed 
his  sweetheart  endlessly  with  his  mother. 

"  You  know,  mother,  when  I  'm  away  from  her  I  don't 
care  for  her  a  bit.  I  should  n't  care  if  I  never  saw  her 
again.  But,  then,  when  I  'm  with  her  in  the  evenings  I  am 
awfully  fond  of  her." 


Death  in  the  Family  151 

"  It 's  a  queer  sort  of  love  to  marry  on,"  said  Mrs. 
Morel,  "  if  she  holds  you  no  more  than  that !  " 

"  It  is  funny !  "  he  exclaimed.  It  worried  and  perplexed 
him.  "  But  yet  —  there  's  so  much  between  us  now  I 
could  n't  give  her  up." 

"  You  know  best,"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "  But  if  it  is  as 
you  say,  I  would  n't  call  it  love  —  at  any  rate,  it  does  n't 
look  much  like  it." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  mother.    She  's  an  orphan,  and  —  " 

They  never  came  to  any  sort  of  conclusion.  He  seemed 
puzzled  and  rather  fretted.  She  was  rather  reserved.  All 
his  strength  and  money  went  in  keeping  this  girl.  He 
could  scarcely  afford  to  take  his  mother  to  Nottingham 
when  he  came  over. 

Paul's  wages  had  been  raised  at  Christmas  to  ten 
shillings,  to  his  great  joy.  He  was  quite  happy  at  Jor- 
dan's, but  his  health  suffered  from  the  long  hours  and  the 
confinement.  His  mother,  to  whom  he  became  more  and 
more  significant,  thought  how  to  help. 

His  half-holiday  was  on  Monday  afternoon.  On  a 
Monday  morning  in  May,  as  the  two  sat  alone  at  break- 
fast, she  said: 

"  I  think  it  will  be  a  fine  day." 

He  looked  up  in  surprise.     This  meant  something. 

"  You  know  Mr.  Leivers  has  gone  to  live  on  a  new 
farm.  Well,  he  asked  me  last  week  if  I  would  n't  go  and 
see  Mrs.  Leivers,  and  I  promised  to  bring  you  on  Monday 
if  it 's  fine.  Shall  we  go?  " 

"  I  say,  little  woman,  how  lovely !  "  he  cried.  "  And 
we  '11  go  this  afternoon  ?  " 

Paul  hurried  off  to  the  station  jubilant.  Down  Derby 
Road  was  a  cherry-tree  that  glistened.  The  old  brick 
wall  by  the  Statutes  ground  burned  scarlet,  spring  was  a 
very  flame  of  green.  And  the  steep  swoop  of  high  road 
lay,  in  its  cool  morning  dust,  splendid  with  patterns  of 
sunshine  and  shadow,  perfectly  still.  The  trees  sloped  their 
great  green  shoulders  proudly;  and  inside  the  warehouse 
all  the  morning,  the  boy  had  a  vision  of  spring  outside. 


Sons  and  Lovers 

When  he  came  home  at  dinner-time  his  mother  was 
rather  excited. 

"  Are  we  going?  "  he  asked. 

"  When  I  'm  ready,"  she  replied. 

Presently  he  got  up. 

"  Go  and  get  dressed  while  I  wash  up,"  he  said. 

She  did  so.  He  washed  the  pots,  straightened,  and  then 
took  her  boots.  They  were  quite  clean.  Mrs.  Morel  was 
one  of  those  naturally  exquisite  people  who  can  walk  in 
mud  without  dirtying  their  shoes.  But  Paul  had  to  clean 
them  for  her.  They  were  kid  boots  at  eight  shillings  a 
pair.  He,  however,  thought  them  the  most  dainty  boots 
in  the  world,  and  he  cleaned  them  with  as  much  reverence 
as  if  they  had  been  flowers. 

Suddenly  she  appeared  in  the  inner  doorway  rather 
shyly.  She  had  got  a  new  cotton  blouse  on.  Paul  jumped 
up  and  went  forward. 

"Oh,  my  stars!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  a  bobby- 
dazzler!" 

She  sniffed  in  a  little  haughty  way,  and  put  her  head  up. 

"  It  5s  not  a  bobby-dazzler  at  all !  "  she  replied.  "  It 's 
very  quiet !  " 

She  walked  forward,  whilst  he  hovered  round  her. 

"  Well,"  she  asked,  quite  shy,  but  pretending  to  be 
high  and  mighty,  "  do  you  like  it?  " 

"  Awfully !  You  are  a  fine  little  woman  to  go  j  aunting 
out  with !  " 

He  went  and  surveyed  her  from  the  back. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  if  I  was  walking  down  the  street  be- 
hind you,  I  should  say,  '  Does  n't  that  little  person  fancy 
herself!'" 

"  Well,  she  does  n't,"  replied  Mrs.  Morel.  "  She  's  not 
sure  it  suits  her." 

"  Oh  no !  she  wants  to  be  in  dirty  black,  looking  as  if 
she  was  wrapped  in  burnt  paper.  It  does  suit  you,  and  7 
say  you  look  nice." 

She  sniffed  in  her  little  way,  pleased,  but  pretending  to 
know  better. 


Death  in  the  Family  153 

"Well,"  she  said,  "it's  cost  me  just  three  shillings. 
You  could  n't  have  got  it  ready-made  for  that  price,  could 
you?" 

"  I  should  think  you  could  n't,"  he  replied. 

"  And,  you  know,  it  's  good  stuff." 

"  Awfully  pretty,"  he  said. 

The  blouse  was  white,  with  a  little  sprig  of  heliotrope 
and  black. 

"  Too  young  for  me,  though,  I  'm  afraid,"  she  said. 

"  Too  young  for  you !  "  he  exclaimed  in  disgust.  "  Why 
don't  you  buy  some  false  white  hair  and  stick  it  on  your 
head?  " 

"  I  s'll  soon  have  no  need,"  she  replied.  "  I  'm  going 
white  fast  enough." 

"  Well,  you  've  no  business  to,"  he  said.  "  What  do  I 
want  with  a  white-haired  mother?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  '11  have  to  put  up  with  one,  my  lad," 
she  said  rather  strangely. 

They  set  off  in  great  style,  she  carrying  the  umbrella 
William  had  given  her,  because  of  the  sun.  Paul  was  con- 
siderably taller  than  she,  though  he  was  not  big.  He 
fancied  himself. 

On  the  fallow  land  the  young  wheat  shone  silkily. 
Minton  pit  waved  its  plumes  of  white  steam,  coughed,  and 
rattled  hoarsely. 

"  Now  look  at  that !  "  said  Mrs.  Morel.  Mother  and 
son  stood  on  the  road  to  watch.  Along  the  ridge  of  the 
great  pit-hill  crawled  a  little  group  in  silhouette  against 
the  sky,  a  horse,  a  small  truck,  and  a  man.  They  climbed 
the  incline  against  the  heavens.  At  the  end  the  man  tipped 
the  waggon.  There  was  an  undue  rattle  as  the  waste  fell 
down  the  sheer  slope  of  the  enormous  bank. 

"  You  sit  a  minute,  mother,"  he  said,  and  she  took  a 
seat  on  a  bank,  whilst  he  sketched  rapidly.  She  was  silent 
whilst  he  worked,  looking  round  at  the  afternoon,  the  red 
cottages  shining  among  their  greenness. 

"  The  world  is  a  wonderful  place,"  she  said,  "  and  won- 
derfully beautiful." 


154  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  And  so  's  the  pit,"  he  said.  "  Look  how  it  heaps  to- 
gether, like  something  alive  almost  —  a  big  creature  that 
you  don't  know." 

"  Yes,"  she  said.    "  Perhaps !  " 

"  And  all  the  trucks  standing  waiting,  like  a  string  of 
beasts  to  be  fed,"  he  said. 

"  And  very  thankful  I  am  they  are  standing,"  she  said, 
"  for  that  means  they  '11  turn  middling  time  this  week." 

"  But  I  like  the  feel  of  men  on  things,  while  they  're 
alive.  There  's  a  feel  of  men  about  trucks,  because  they  've 
been  handled  with  men's  hands,  all  of  them." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

They  went  along  under  the  trees  of  the  highroad.  He 
was  constantly  informing  her,  but  she  was  interested. 
They  passed  the  end  of  Nethermere,  that  was  tossing  its 
sunshine  like  petals  lightly  in  its  lap.  Then  they  turned 
on  a  private  road,  and  in  some  trepidation  approached  a 
big  farm.  A  dog  barked  furiously.  A  woman  came  out 
to  see. 

"  Is  this  the  way  to  Willey  Farm  ?  "  Mrs.  Morel  asked. 

Paul  hung  behind  in  terror  of  being  sent  back.  But 
the  woman  was  amiable,  and  directed  them.  The  mother 
and  son  went  through  the  wheat  and  oats,  over  a  little 
bridge  into  a  wild  meadow.  Peewits,  with  their  white 
breasts  glistening,  wheeled  and  screamed  about  them.  The 
lake  was  still  and  blue.  High  overhead  a  heron  floated. 
Opposite,  the  wood  heaped  on  the  hill,  green  and  still. 

"It's  a  wild  road,  mother,"  said  Paul.  "Just  like 
Canada." 

"  Is  n't  it  beautiful !  "  said  Mrs.  Morel,  looking  round. 

"  See  that  heron  —  see  —  see  her  legs  ?  " 

He  directed  his  mother,  what  she  must  see  and  what  not. 
And  she  was  quite  content. 

"  But  now,"  she  said,  "  which  way?  He  told  me  through 
the  wood." 

The  wood,  fenced  and  dark,  lay  on  their  left. 

"  I  can  feel  a  bit  of  a  path  this  road,"  said  Paul. 
"  You  've  got  town  feet,  somehow  or  other,  you  have." 


Death  in  the  Family  155 

They  found  a  little  gate,  and  soon  were  in  a  broad 
green  alley  of  the  wood,  with  a  new  thicket  of  fir  and 
pine  on  one  hand,  an  old  oak  glade  dipping  down  on  the 
other.  And  among  the  oaks  the  bluebells  stood  in  pools 
of  azure,  under  the  new  green  hazels,  upon  a  pale  fawn 
floor  of  oak-leaves.  He  found  flowers  for  her. 

"  Here  's  a  bit  of  new-mown  hay,"  he  said ;  then,  again, 
he  brought  her  forget-me-nots.  And,  again,  his  heart 
hurt  with  love,  seeing  her  hand,  used  with  work,  holding 
the  little  bunch  of  flowers  he  gave  her.  She  was  perfectly 
happy. 

But  at  the  end  of  the  riding  was  a  fence  to  climb.  Paul 
was  over  in  a  second. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  let  me  help  you." 

"  No,  go  away.     I  will  do  it  in  my  own  way." 

He  stood  below  with  his  hands  up  ready  to  help  her. 
She  climbed  cautiously. 

"  What  a  way  to  climb !  "  he  exclaimed  scornfully,  when 
she  was  safely  to  earth  again. 

"  Hateful  stiles !  "  she  cried. 

"  Duffer  of  a  little  woman,"  he  replied,  "  who  can't  get 
over  'em." 

In  front,  along  the  edge  of  the  wood,  was  a  cluster  of 
low  red  farm  buildings.  The  two  hastened  forward. 
Flush  with  the  wood  was  the  apple  orchard,  where  blos- 
som was  falling  on  the  grindstone.  The  pond  was  deep 
under  a  hedge  and  overhanging  oak-trees.  Some  cows 
stood  in  the  shade.  The  farm  and  buildings,  three  sides 
of  a  quadrangle,  embraced  the  sunshine  towards  the  wood. 
It  was  very  still. 

Mother  and  son  went  into  the  small  railed  garden, 
where  was  a  scent  of  red  gillivers.  By  the  open  door 
were  some  floury  loaves,  put  out  to  cool.  A  hen  was 
just  coming  to  peck  them.  Then,  in  the  doorway  sud- 
denly appeared  a  girl  in  a  dirty  apron.  She  was  about 
fourteen  years  old,  had  a  rosy  dark  face,  a  bunch  of  short 
black  curls,  very  fine  and  free,  and  dark  eyes ;  shy,  ques- 
tioning, a  little  resentful  of  the  strangers,  she  disappeared. 


156  Sons  and  Lovers 

In  a  minute  another  figure  appeared,  a  small,  frail  woman, 
rosy,  with  great  dark  brown  eyes. 

"  Oh ! "  she  exclaimed,  smiling  with  a  little  glow, 
"  you  've  come,  then.  I  am  glad  to  see  you."  Her  voice 
was  intimate  and  rather  sad. 

The  two  women  shook  hands. 

"  Now  are  you  sure  we  're  not  a  bother  to  you?  "  said 
Mrs.  Morel.  "  I  know  what  a  farming  life  is." 

"  Oh  no !  We  're  only  too  thankful  to  see  a  new  face, 
it  's  so  lost  up  here." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

They  were  taken  through  into  the  parlour  —  a  long, 
low  room,  with  a  great  bunch  of  guelder-roses  in  the  fire- 
place. There  the  women  talked,  whilst  Paul  went  out  to 
survey  the  land.  He  was  in  the  garden  smelling  the  gilli- 
vers  and  looking  at  the  plants,  when  the  girl  came  out 
quickly  to  the  heap  of  coal  which  stood  by  the  fence. 

"  I  suppose  these  are  cabbage-roses  ?  "  he  said  to  her, 
pointing  to  the  bushes  along  the  fence. 

She  looked  at  him  with  startled,  big  brown  eyes. 

"  I  suppose  they  are  cabbage-roses  when  they  come 
out?  "  he  said. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  faltered.  "  They  're  white  with 
pink  middles." 

"  Then  they  're  maiden-blush." 

Miriam  flushed.     She  had  a  beautiful  warm  colouring. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said. 

"  You  don't  have  much  in  your  garden,"  he  said. 

"  This  is  our  first  year  here,"  she  answered,  in  a  dis- 
tant, rather  superior  way,  drawing  back  and  going  in- 
doors. He  did  not  notice,  but  went  his  round  of  explora- 
tion. Presently  his  mother  came  out,  and  they  went 
through  the  buildings.  Paul  was  hugely  delighted. 

"  And  I  suppose  you  have  the  fowls  and  calves  and  pigs 
to  look  after?  "  said  Mrs.  Morel  to  Mrs.  Leivers. 

"  No,"  replied  the  little  woman.  "  I  can't  find  time  to 
look  after  cattle,  and  I  'm  not  used  to  it.  It 's  as  much 
as  I  can  do  to  keep  going  in  the  house." 


Death  in  the  Family  157 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

Presently  the  girl  came  out. 

"  Tea  is  ready,  mother,"  she  said  in  a  musical,  quiet 
voice. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Miriam,  then  we  '11  come,"  replied  her 
mother,  almost  ingratiatingly.  "  Would  you  care  to  have 
tea  now,  Mrs.  Morel?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "  Whenever  it 's  ready." 

Paul  and  his  mother  and  Mrs.  Leivers  had  tea  to- 
gether. Then  they  went  out  into  the  wood  that  was 
flooded  with  bluebells,  while  fumy  forget-me-nots  were  in 
the  paths.  The  mother  and  son  were  in  ecstasy  together. 

When  they  got  back  to  the  house,  Mr.  Leivers  and 
Edgar,  the  eldest  son,  were  in  the  kitchen.  Edgar  was 
about  eighteen.  Then  Geoffrey  and  Maurice,  big  lads  of 
twelve  and  thirteen,  were  in  from  school.  Mr.  Leivers 
was  a  good-looking  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  with  a  golden- 
brown  moustache,  and  blue  eyes  screwed  up  against  the 
weather. 

The  boys  were  condescending,  but  Paul  scarcely  ob- 
served it.  They  went  round  for  eggs,  scrambling  into 
all  sorts  of  places.  As  they  were  feeding  the  fowls 
Miriam  came  out.  The  boys  took  no  notice  of  her.  One 
hen,  with  her  yellow  chickens,  was  in  a  coop.  Maurice 
took  his  hand  full  of  corn  and  let  the  hen  peck  from  it. 

"  Durst  you  do  it?  "  he  asked  of  Paul. 

"  Let 's  see,"  said  Paul. 

He  had  a  small  hand,  warm,  and  rather  capable-looking. 
Miriam  watched.  He  held  the  corn  to  the  hen.  The  bird 
eyed  it  with  her  hard,  bright  eye,  and  suddenly  made  a 
peck  into  his  hand.  He  started,  and  laughed.  "  Rap, 
rap,  rap !  "  went  the  bird's  beak  in  his  palm.  He  laughed 
again,  and  the  other  boys  joined. 

"  She  knocks  you,  and  nips  you,  but  she  never  hurts," 
said  Paul,  when  the  last  corn  had  gone. 

"  Now,  Miriam,"  said  Maurice,  "  you  come  an'  'ave  a 

go." 

"  No,"  she  cried,  shrinking  back. 


158  Sons  and  Lovers 

"Ha!  baby.     The  mardy-kid !  "  -  said  her  brothers. 

"It  doesn't  hurt  a  bit,"  said  Paul.  "It  only  just 
nips  rather  nicely." 

"  No,"  she  still  cried,  shaking  her  black  curls  and 
shrinking. 

"  She  durs  n't,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  She  niver  durst  do 
anything  except  recite  poitry." 

"  Durs  n't  jump  off  a  gate,  durs  n't  tweedle,  durs  n't  go 
on  a  slide,  durs  n't  stop  a  girl  hittin'  her.  She  can  do 
nowt  but  go  about  thinkin'  herself  somebody.  *  The  Lady 
of  the  Lake.'  Yah !  "  cried  Maurice. 

Miriam  was  crimson  with  shame  and  misery. 

"  I  dare  do  more  than  you,"  she  cried.  "  You  're  never 
anything  but  cowards  and  bullies." 

"  Oh,  cowards  and  bullies !  "  they  repeated,  mincingly 
mocking  her  speech. 

"  Not  such  a  clown  shall  anger  me, 
A  boor  is  answered  silently  " 

he  quoted  against  her,  shouting  with  laughter. 

She  went  indoors.  Paul  went  with  the  boys  into  the 
orchard,  where  they  had  rigged  up  a  parallel  bar.  They 
did  feats  of  strength.  He  was  more  agile  than  strong,  but 
it  served.  He  fingered  a  piece  of  apple-blossom  that  hung 
low  on  a  swinging  bough. 

"  I  would  n't  get  the  apple-blossom,"  said  Edgar,  the 
eldest  brother.  "  There  '11  be  no  apples  next  year." 

"  I  was  n't  going  to  get  it,"  replied  Paul,  going  away. 

The  boys  felt  hostile  to  him ;  they  were  more  interested 
in  their  own  pursuits.  He  wandered  back  to  the  house  to 
look  for  his  mother.  As  he  went  round  the  back,  he  saw 
Miriam  kneeling  in  front  of  the  hen-coop,  some  maize  in 
her  hand,  biting  her  lip,  and  crouching  in  an  intense  atti- 
tude. The  hen  was  eyeing  her  wickedly.  Very  gingerly 
she  put  forward  her  hand.  The  hen  bobbed  for  her.  She 
drew  back  quickly  with  a  cry,  half  of  fear,  half  of 
chagrin. 

"  It  won't  hurt  you,"  said  Paul. 


Death  in  the  Family  159 

She  flushed  crimson  and  started  up. 

"  I  only  wanted  to  try,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  See,  it  does  n't  hurt,"  he  said,  and,  putting  only  two 
corns  in  his  palm,  he  let  the  hen  peck,  peck,  peck  at  his 
bare  hand.  "  It  ojily  makes  you  laugh,"  he  said. 

She  put  her  hand  forward,  and  dragged  it  away,  tried 
again,  and  started  back  with  a  cry.  He  frowned. 

"  Why,  I  'd  let  her  take  corn  from  my  face,"  said  Paul, 
"  only  she  bumps  a  bit.  She  's  ever  so  neat.  If  she 
was  n't,  look  how  much  ground  she  'd  peck  up  every  day." 

He  waited  grimly,  and  watched.  At  last  Miriam  let  the 
bird  peck  from  her  hand.  She  gave  a  little  cry  —  fear, 
and  pain  because  of  fear  —  rather  pathetic.  But  she  had 
done  it,  and  she  did  it  again. 

"  There,  you  see,"  said  the  boy.  "  It  does  n't  hurt, 
does  it?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  dilated  dark  eyes. 

"  No,"  she  laughed,  trembling. 

Then  she  rose  and  went  indoors.  She  seemed  to  be  in 
some  way  resentful  of  the  boy. 

"  He  thinks  I  'm  only  a  common  girl,"  she  thought,  and 
she  wanted  to  prove  she  was  a  grand  person  like  the 
"  Lady  of  the  Lake." 

Paul  found  his  mother  ready  to  go  home.  She  smiled 
on  her  son.  He  took  the  great  bunch  of  flowers.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Leivers  walked  down  the  fields  with  them.  The 
hills  were  golden  with  evening;  deep  in  the  wood  showed 
the  darkening  purple  of  bluebells.  It  was  everywhere 
perfectly  still,  save  for  the  rustling  of  leaves  and  birds. 

"  But  it  is  a  beautiful  place,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Leivers ;  "  it 's  a  nice  little  place, 
if  only  it  were  n't  for  the  rabbits.  The  pasture  's  bitten 
down  to  nothing.  I  dunno  if  ever  I  s'll  get  the  rent  off  it." 

He  clapped  his  hands,  and  the  field  broke  into  motion 
near  the  woods,  brown  rabbits  hopping  everywhere. 

"  Would  you  believe  it !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Morel. 

She  and  Paul  went  on  alone  together. 

"  Was  n't  it  lovely,  mother?  "  he  said  quietly. 


160  Sons  and  Lovers 

A  thin  moon  was  coming  out.  His  heart  was  full  of 
happiness  till  it  hurt.  His  mother  had  to  chatter,  because 
she,  too,  wanted  to  cry  with  happiness. 

"  Now  would  n't  I  help  that  man ! "  she  said. 
"  Would  n't  I  see  to  the  fowls  and  the  young  stock ! 
And  /  9d  learn  to  milk,  and  I  'd  talk  with  him,  and  /  *d 
plan  with  him.  My  word,  if  I  were  his  wife,  the  farm 
would  be  run,  I  know !  But  there,  she  has  n't  the  strength 
—  she  simply  has  n't  the  strength.  She  ought  never  to 
have  been  burdened  like  it,  you  know.  I  'm  sorry  for  her, 
and  I  'm  sorry  for  him  too.  My  word,  if  /  9d  had  him, 
I  should  n't  have  thought  him  a  bad  husband !  Not  that 
she  does  either ;  and  she  's  very  lovable." 

William  came  home  again  with  his  sweetheart  at  the 
Whitsuntide.  He  had  one  week  of  his  holidays  then.  It 
was  beautiful  weather.  As  a  rule,  William  and  Lily  and 
Paul  went  out  in  the  morning  together  for  a  walk.  Wil- 
liam did  not  talk  to  his  beloved  much,  except  to  tell  her 
things  from  his  boyhood.  Paul  talked  endlessly  to  both 
of  them.  They  lay  down,  all  three,  in  a  meadow  by 
Minton  Church.  On  one  side,  by  the  Castle  Farm,  was 
a  beautiful  quivering  screen  of  poplars.  Hawthorn  was 
dropping  from  the  hedges ;  penny  daisies  and  ragged 
robin  were  in  the  field,  like  laughter.  William,  a  big  fel- 
low of  twenty-three,  thinner  now  and  even  a  bit  gaunt, 
lay  back  in  the  sunshine  and  dreamed,  while  she  fingered 
with  his  hair.  Paul  went  gathering  the  big  daisies.  She 
had  taken  off  her  hat;  her  hair  was  black  as  a  horse's 
mane.  Paul  came  back  and  threaded  daisies  in  her  jet- 
black  hair  —  big  spangles  of  white  and  yellow,  and  just 
a  pink  touch  of  ragged  robin. 

"  Now  you  look  like  a  young  witch-woman,"  the  boy 
said  to  her.  "  Does  n't  she,  William?  " 

Lily  laughed.  William  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at 
her.  In  his  gaze  was  a  certain  baffled  look  of  misery  and 
fierce  appreciation. 

"Has  he  made  a  sight  of  me?"  she  asked,  laughing 
down  on  her  lover. 


Death  In  the  Family  161 

"  That  he  has !  "  said  William,  smiling. 

He  looked  at  her.  Her  beauty  seemed  to  hurt  him.  He 
glanced  at  her  flower-decked  head  and  frowned. 

"  You  look  nice  enough,  if  that 's  what  you  want  to 
know,"  he  said. 

And  she  walked  without  her  hat.  In  a  little  while 
William  recovered,  and  was  rather  tender  to  her.  Coming 
to  a  bridge,  he  carved  her  initials  and  his  in  a  heart. 


She  watched  his  strong,  nervous  hand,  with  its  glis- 
tening hairs  and  freckles,  as  he  carved,  and  she  seemed 
fascinated  by  it. 

All  the  time  there  was  a  feeling  of  sadness  and  warmth, 
and  a  certain  tenderness  in  the  house,  whilst  William  and 
Lily  were  at  home.  But  often  he  got  irritable.  She  had 
brought,  for  an  eight-days'  stay,  five  dresses  and  six 
blouses. 

"  Oh,  would  you  mind,"  she  said  to  Annie,  "  washing  me 
these  two  blouses,  and  these  things?  " 

And  Annie  stood  washing  when  William  and  Lily  went 
out  the  next  morning.  Mrs.  Morel  was  furious.  And 
sometimes  the  young  man,  catching  a  glimpse  of  his  sweet- 
heart's attitude  towards  his  sister,  hated  her. 

On  Sunday  morning  she  looked  very  beautiful  in  a  dress 
of  foulard,  silky  and  sweeping,  and  blue  as  a  jay-bird's 
feather,  and  in  a  large  cream  hat  covered  with  many  roses, 
mostly  crimson.  Nobody  could  admire  her  enough.  But 
in  the  evening,  when  she  was  going  out,  she  asked  again  : 

"  Chubby,  have  you  got  my  gloves  ?  " 

"  Which?  "  asked  William. 

"  My  new  black  suede" 

"  No." 

There  was  a  hunt.     She  had  lost  them. 


162  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Look  here,  mother,"  said  William,  "  that 's  the  fourth 
pair  she 's  lost  since  Christmas  —  at  five  shillings  a 
pair!" 

"  You  only  gave  me  two  of  them,"  she  remonstrated. 

And  in  the  evening,  after  supper,  he  stood  on  the 
hearthrug  whilst  she  sat  on  the  sofa,  and  he  seemed  to 
hate  her.  In  the  afternoon  he  had  left  her  whilst  he 
went  to  see  some  old  friend.  She  had  sat  looking  at  a 
book.  After  supper  William  wanted  to  write  a  letter. 

"  Here  is  your  book,  Lily,"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "  Would 
you  care  to  go  on  with  it  for  a  few  minutes?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  the  girl.    "  I  will  sit  still." 

"  But  it  is  so  dull." 

William  scribbled  irritably  at  a  great  rate.  As  he 
sealed  the  envelope  he  said: 

"  Read  a  book !  Why,  she  's  never  read  a  book  in  her 
life!" 

"  Oh,  go  along !  "  said  Mrs.  Morel,  cross  with  the  ex- 
aggeration. 

"It's  true,  mother  —  she  hasn't,"  he  cried,  jumping 
up  and  taking  his  old  position  on  the  hearthrug.  "  She  's 
never  read  a  book  in  her  life." 

"  'Er  's  like  me,"  chimed  in  Morel.  "  'Er  canna  see 
what  there  is  i'  books,  ter  sit  borin'  your  nose  in  'em  for, 
nor  more  can  I." 

"  But  you  should  n't  say  these  things,"  said  Mrs.  Morel 
to  her  son. 

"  But  it 's  true,  mother  —  she  can't  read.  What  did 
you  give  her?  " 

"  Well,  I  gave  her  a  little  thing  of  Annie  Swan's.  No- 
body wants  to  read  dry  stuff  on  Sunday  afternoon." 

"  Well,  I  '11  bet  she  did  n't  read  ten  lines  of  it." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  said  his  mother. 

All  the  time  Lily  sat  miserably  on  the  sofa.  He  turned 
to  her  swiftly. 

"  Did  you  read  any?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  she  replied. 

"How  much?" 


Death  in  the  Family  163 

"  I  don't  know  how  many  pages." 

"  Tell  me  one  thing  you  read." 

She  could  not. 

She  never  got  beyond  the  second  page.  He  read  a 
great  deal,  and  had  a  quick,  active  intelligence.  She 
could  understand  nothing  but  love-making  and  chatter. 
He  was  accustomed  to  having  all  his  thoughts  sifted 
through  his  mother's  mind;  so,  when  he  wanted  compan- 
ionship, and  was  asked  in  reply  to  be  the  billing  and 
twittering  lover,  he  hated  his  betrothed. 

"  You  know,  mother,"  he  said,  when  he  was  alone  with 
her  at  night,  "  she  's  no  idea  of  money,  she  's  so  wessel- 
brained.  When  she  's  paid,  she  '11  suddenly  buy  such  rot 
as  marrons  glaces,  and  then  /  have  to  buy  her  season- 
ticket,  and  her  extras,  even  her  underclothing.  And  she 
wants  to  get  married,  and  I  think  myself  we  might  as 
well  get  married  next  year.  But  at  this  rate  —  " 

"  A  fine  mess  of  a  marriage  it  would  be,"  replied  his 
mother.  "  I  should  consider  it  again,  my  boy." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  've  gone  too  far  to  break  off  now,"  he  said, 
"  and  so  I  shall  get  married  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"  Very  well,  my  boy.  If  you  will,  you  will,  and  there  's 
no  stopping  you;  but  I  tell  you,  /  can't  sleep  when  I 
think  about  it." 

"  Oh,  she  '11  be  all  right,  mother.    We  shall  manage." 

"  And  she  lets  you  buy  her  underclothing?  "  asked  the 
mother. 

"  Well,"  he  began  apologetically,  "  she  did  n't  ask  me ; 
but  one  morning  —  and  it  was  cold  —  I  found  her  on  the 
station  shivering,  not  able  to  keep  still ;  so  I  asked  her  if 
she  was  well  wrapped  up.  She  said :  '  I  think  so.'  So  I 
said:  'Have  you  got  warm  underthings  on?'  And  she 
said :  *  No,  they  are  cotton.'  I  asked  her  why  on  earth 
she  had  n't  got  something  thicker  on  in  weather  like  that, 
and  she  said  because  she  had  nothing.  And  there  she  is 
—  a  bronchial  subject!  I  had  to  take  her  and  get  some 
warm  things.  Well,  mother,  I  should  n't  mind  the  money 
if  we  had  any.  And,  you  know,  she  ought  to  keep  enough 


164  Sons  and  Lovers 

to  pay  for  her  season-ticket;  but  no,  she  comes  to  me 
about  that,  and  I  have  to  find  the  money." 

"  It 's  a  poor  lookout,"  said  Mrs.  Morel  bitterly. 

He  was  pale,  and  his  rugged  face,  that  used  to  be  so 
perfectly  careless  and  laughing,  was  stamped  with  conflict 
and  despair. 

"  But  I  can't  give  her  up  now ;  it 's  gone  too  far,"  he 
said.  "  And,  besides,  for  some  things  I  could  n't  do  with- 
out her." 

"  My  boy,  remember  you  're  taking  your  life  in  your 
hands,"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "  Nothing  is  as  bad  as  a  mar- 
riage that 's  a  hopeless  failure.  Mine  was  bad  enough, 
God  knows,  and  ought  to  teach  you  something;  but  it 
might  have  been  worse  by  a  long  chalk." 

He  leaned  with  his  back  against  the  side  of  the  chimney- 
piece,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He  was  a  big,  raw-boned 
man,  who  looked  as  if  he  would  go  to  the  world's  end  if  he 
wanted  to.  But  she  saw  the  despair  on  his  face. 

"  I  could  n't  give  her  up  now,"  he  said. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  remember  there  are  worse  wrongs 
than  breaking  off  an  engagement." 

"  I  can't  give  her  up  now"  he  said. 

The  clock  ticked  on;  mother  and  son  remained  in 
silence,  a  conflict  between  them;  but  he  would  say  no 
more.  At  last  she  said: 

"  Well,  go  to  bed,  my  son.  You  '11  feel  better  in  the 
morning,  and  perhaps  you  '11  know  better." 

He  kissed  her,  and  went.  She  raked  the  fire.  Her  heart 
was  heavy  now  as  it  had  never  been.  Before,  with  her  hus- 
band, things  had  seemed  to  be  breaking  down  in  her,  but 
they  did  not  destroy  her  power  to  live.  Now  her  soul  felt 
lamed  in  itself.  It  was  her  hope  that  was  struck. 

And  so  often  William  manifested  the  same  hatred 
towards  his  betrothed.  On  the  last  evening  at  home  he 
was  railing  against  her. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  if  you  don't  believe  me,  what  she  's 
like,  would  you  believe  she  has  been  confirmed  three 
times?" 


Death  in  the  Family  165 

"  Nonsense!  "  laughed  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  Nonsense  or  not,  she  has!  That 's  what  confirmation 
means  for  her  —  a  bit  of  a  theatrical  show  where  she  can 
cut  a  figure." 

"  I  have  n't,  Mrs.  Morel !  "  cried  the  girl  —  "I  have  n't ! 
it  is  not  true !  " 

"  What !  "  he  cried,  flashing  round  on  her.  "  Once  in 
Bromley,  once  in  Beckenham,  and  once  somewhere  else." 

"  Nowhere  else !  "  she  said,  in  tears  —  "  nowhere  else !  " 

"  It  was!  And  if  it  was  n't,  why  were  you  confirmed 
twice?  " 

"  Once  I  was  only  fourteen,  Mrs.  Morel,"  she  pleaded, 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Morel ;  "  I  can  quite  understand  it, 
child.  Take  no  notice  of  him.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed, 
William,  saying  such  things." 

"  But  it 's  true.  She  's  religious  —  she  has  blue  velvet 
Prayer-Books  —  and  she  's  not  as  much  religion,  or  any- 
thing else,  in  her  than  that  table-leg.  Gets  confirmed 
three  times  for  show,  to  show  herself  off,  and  that 's  how 
she  is  in  everything  —  everything!  " 

The  girl  sat  on  the  sofa,  crying.     She  was  not  strong. 

"  As  for  love!  "  he  cried,  "  you  might  as  well  ask  a  fly 
to  love  you !  It  '11  love  settling  on  you  —  " 

"  Now,  say  no  more,"  commanded  Mrs.  Morel.  "  If 
you  want  to  say  these  things,  you  must  find  another  place 
than  this.  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  William!  Why  don't 
you  be  more  manly?  To  do  nothing  but  find  fault  with 
a  girl,  and  then  pretend  you  're  engaged  to  her !  " 

Mrs.  Morel  subsided  in  wrath  and  indignation. 

William  was  silent,  and  later  he  repented,  kissed  and 
comforted  the  girl.  Yet  it  was  true,  what  he  had  said. 
He  hated  her. 

When  they  were  going  away,  Mrs.  Morel  accompanied 
them  as  far  as  Nottingham.  It  was  a  long  way  to  Keston 
station. 

'*  You  know,  mother,"  he  said  to  her,  "  Gyp  's  shallow. 
Nothing  goes  deep  with  her." 


166  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  William,  I  wish  you  would  n't  say  these  things,"  said 
Mrs.  Morel,  very  uncomfortable  for  the  girl  who  walked 
beside  her. 

"  But  it  does  n't,  mother.  She  's  very  much  in  love 
with  me  now,  but  if  I  died  she  'd  have  forgotten  me  in 
three  months." 

Mrs.  Morel  was  afraid.  Her  heart  beat  furiously,  hear- 
ing the  quiet  bitterness  of  her  son's  last  speech. 

"  How  do  you  know?  "  she  replied.  "  You  don't  know, 
and  therefore  you  've  no  right  to  say  such  a  thing." 

"  He  's  always  saying  these  things !  "  cried  the  girl. 

"  In  three  months  after  I  was  buried  you  'd  have  some- 
body else,  and  I  should  be  forgotten,"  he  said.  "  And 
that 's  your  love !  " 

Mrs.  Morel  saw  them  into  the  train  in  Nottingham, 
then  she  returned  home. 

"There's  one  comfort,"  she  said  to  Paul  — "he'll 
never  have  any  money  to  marry  on,  that  I  am  sure  of. 
And  so  she  '11  save  him  that  way." 

So  she  took  cheer.  Matters  were  not  yet  very  desper- 
ate. She  firmly  believed  William  would  never  marry  his 
Gipsy.  She  waited,  and  she  kept  Paul  near  to  her. 

All  summer  long  William's  letters  had  a  feverish  tone; 
he  seemed  unnatural  and  intense.  Sometimes  he  was  ex- 
aggeratedly jolly,  usually  he  was  flat  and  bitter  in  his 
letter. 

"  Ay,"  his  mother  said,  "  I  'm  afraid  he  's  ruining  him- 
self against  that  creature,  who  is  n't  worthy  of  his  love, 
—  no,  no  more  than  a  rag  doll." 

He  wanted  to  come  home.  The  midsummer  holiday  was 
gone;  it  was  a  long  while  to  Christmas.  He  wrote  in 
wild*  excitement,  saying  he  could  come  for  Saturday  and 
Sunday  at  Goose  Fair,  the  first  week  in  October. 

"  You  are  not  well,  my  boy,"  said  his  mother,  when  she 
saw  him. 

She  was  almost  in  tears  at  having  him  to  herself 
again. 

"  No,  I  've  not  been  well,"  he  said.     "  I  've  seemed  to 


Death  in  the  Family  167 

have  a  dragging  cold  all  the  last  month,  but  it  9s  going, 
I  think." 

It  was  sunny  October  weather.  He  seemed  wild  with 
joy,  like  a  schoolboy  escaped;  then  again  he  was  silent 
and  reserved.  He  was  more  gaunt  than  ever,  and  there 
was  a  haggard  look  in  his  eyes. 

"  You  are  doing  too  much,"  said  his  mother  to  him. 

He  was  doing  extra  work,  trying  to  make  some  money 
to  marry  on,  he  said.  He  only  talked  to  his  mother 
once  on  the  Saturday  night;  then  he  was  sad  and  tender 
about  his  beloved. 

"  And  yet,  you  know,  mother,  for  all  that,  if  I  died 
she  'd  be  broken-hearted  for  two  months,  and  then  she  'd 
start  to  forget  me.  You  'd  see,  she  'd  never  come  home 
here  to  look  at  my  grave,  not  even  once." 

"  Why,  William,"  said  his  mother,  "  you  're  not  going 
to  die,  so  why  talk  about  it?  " 

"  But  whether  or  not  —  "  he  replied. 

"  And  she  can't  help  it.  She  is  like  that,  and  if  you 
choose  her  —  well,  you  can't  grumble,"  said  his  mother. 

On  the  Sunday  morning,  as  he  was  putting  his  collar  on : 

"  Look,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  holding  up  his  chin, 
"  what  a  rash  my  collar  's  made  under  my  chin !  " 

Just  at  the  junction  of  chin  and  throat  was  a  big  red 
inflammation. 

"  It  ought  not  to  do  that,"  said  his  mother.  "  Here, 
put  a  bit  of  this  soothing  ointment  on.  You  should  wear 
different  collars." 

He  went  away  on  Sunday  midnight,  seeming  better  and 
more  solid  for  his  two  days  at  home. 

On  Tuesday  morning  came  a  telegram  from  London 
that  he  was  ill.  Mrs.  Morel  got  off  her  knees  from  wash- 
ing the  floor,  read  the  telegram,  called  a  neighbour,  went 
to  her  landlady  and  borrowed  a  sovereign,  put  on  her 
things,  and  set  off.  She  hurried  to  Keston,  caught  an 
express  for  London  in  Nottingham.  She  had  to  wait  in 
Nottingham  nearly  an  hour.  A  small  figure  in  her  black 
bonnet,  she  was  anxiously  asking  the  porters  if  they  knew 


168  Sons  and  Lovers 

how  to  get  to  Elmers  End.  The  journey  was  three  hours. 
She  sat  in  her  corner  in  a  kind  of  stupor,  never  moving. 
At  King's  Cross  still  no  one  could  tell  her  how  to  get  to 
Elmers  End.  Carrying  her  string  bag,  that  contained 
her  nightdress,  comb  and  brush,  she  went  from  person  to 
person.  At  last  they  sent  her  underground  to  Cannon 
Street. 

It  was  six  o'clock  when  she  arrived  at  William's  lodg- 
ing. The  blinds  were  not  down. 

"How  is  he?  "she  asked. 

"  No  better,"  said  the  landlady. 

She  followed  the  woman  upstairs.  William  lay  on  the 
bed,  with  bloodshot  eyes,  his  face  rather  discoloured.  The 
clothes  were  tossed  about,  there  was  no  fire  in  the  room, 
a  glass  of  milk  stood  on  the  stand  at  his  bedside.  No  one 
had  been  with  him. 

"  Why,  my  son !  "  said  the  mother  bravely. 

He  did  not  answer.  He  looked  at  her,  but  did  not  see 
her.  Then  he  began  to  say,  in  a  dull  voice,  as  if  repeating 
a  letter  from  dictation :  "  Owing  to  a  leakage  in  the  hold 
of  this  vessel,  the  sugar  had  set,  and  become  converted  into 
rock.  It  needed  hacking  —  " 

He  was  quite  unconscious.  It  had  been  his  business  to 
examine  some  such  cargo  of  sugar  in  the  Port  of  London. 

"  How  long  has  he  been  like  this  ?  "  the  mother  asked 
the  landlady. 

"  He  got  home  at  six  o'clock  on  Monday  morning,  and 
he  seemed  to  sleep  all  day;  then  in  the  night  we  heard 
him  talking,  and  this  morning  he  asked  for  you.  So  I 
wired,  and  we  fetched  the  doctor." 

"  Will  you  have  a  fire  made  ?  " 

Mrs.  Morel  tried  to  soothe  her  son,  to  keep  him  still. 

The  doctor  came.  It  was  pneumonia,  and,  he  said,  a 
peculiar  erysipelas,  which  had  started  under  the  chin 
where  the  collar  chafed,  and  was  spreading  over  the  face. 
He  hoped  it  would  not  get  to  the  brain. 

Mrs.  Morel  settled  down  to  nurse.  She  prayed  for 
William,  prayed  that  he  would  recognize  her.  But  the 


Death  in  the  Family  169 

young  man's  face  grew  more  discoloured.  In  the  night  she 
struggled  with  him.  He  raved,  and  raved,  and  would  not 
come  to  consciousness.  At  two  o'clock,  in  a  dreadful 
paroxysm,  he  died. 

Mrs.  Morel  sat  perfectly  still  for  an  hour  in  the  lodging 
bedroom ;  then  she  roused  the  household. 

At  six  o'clock,  with  the  aid  of  the  charwoman,  she  laid 
him  out;  then  she  went  round  the  dreary  London  village 
to  the  registrar  and  the  doctor. 

At  nine  o'clock  to  the  cottage  on  Scargill  Street  came 
another  wire: 

"  William  died  last  night.  Let  father  come,  bring 
money." 

Annie,  Paul,  and  Arthur  were  at  home ;  Mr.  Morel  was 
gone  to  work.  The  three  children  said  not  a  word. 
Annie  began  to  whimper  with  fear;  Paul  set  off  for  his 
father. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day.  At  Brinsley  pit  the  white 
steam  melted  slowly  in  the  sunshine  of  a  soft  blue  sky; 
the  wheels  of  the  headstocks  twinkled  high  up ;  the  screen, 
shuffling  its  coal  into  the  trucks,  made  a  busy  noise. 

"  I  want  my  father ;  he  's  got  to  go  to  London,"  said 
the  boy  to  the  first  man  he  met  on  the  bank. 

"  Tha  wants  Walter  Morel?  Go  in  theer  an'  tell  Joe 
Ward." 

Paul  went  into  the  little  top  office. 

"  I  want  my  father ;    he  's  got  to  go  to  London." 

"  Thy  feyther?    Is  he  down?    What 's  his  name?  " 

"  Mr.  Morel." 

"  What,  Walter?     Is  owt  amiss?  " 

"  He  's  got  to  go  to  London." 

The  man  went  to  the  telephone  and  rang  up  the  bottom 
office. 

"  Walter  Morel 's  wanted.  Number  42,  Hard.  Sum- 
mat  's  amiss ;  there  's  his  lad  here." 

Then  he  turned  round  to  Paul. 

"  He  '11  be  up  in  a  few  minutes,"  he  said. 

Paul  wandered  out  to  the  pit-top.     He  watched  the 


170  Sons  and  Lovers 

chair  come  up,  with  its  waggon  of  coal.  The  great  iron 
cage  sank  back  on  its  rest,  a  full  carfle  was  hauled  off, 
an  empty  tram  run  on  to  the  chair,  a  bell  ting'ed  some- 
where, the  chair  heaved,  then  dropped  like  a  stone. 

Paul  did  not  realize  William  was  dead;  it  was  im- 
possible, with  such  a  bustle  going  on.  The  puller-off 
swung  the  small  truck  on  to  the  turn-table,  another  man 
ran  with  it  along  the  bank  down  the  curving  lines. 

"  And  William  is  dead,  and  my  mother  's  in  London, 
and  what  will  she  be  doing?  "  the  boy  asked  himself,  as 
if  it  were  a  conundrum. 

He  watched  chair  after  chair  come  up,  and  still  no 
father.  At  last,  standing  beside  a  waggon,  a  man's  form ! 
The  chair  sank  on  its  rests,  Morel  stepped  off.  He  was 
slightly  lame  from  an  accident. 

"Is  it  thee,  Paul?     Is  'e  worse?" 

"  You  've  got  to  go  to  London." 

The  two  walked  off  the  pit-bank,  where  men  were 
watching  curiously.  As  they  came  out  and  went  along 
the  railway,  with  the  sunny  autumn  field  on  one  side  and 
a  wall  of  trucks  on  the  other,  Morel  said  in  a  frightened 
voice : 

"  'E  's  niver  gone,  child?  " 

"  Yes." 

"When  wor't?" 

The  miner's  voice  was  terrified. 

"  Last  night.     We  had  a  telegram  from  my  mother." 

Morel  walked  on  a  few  strides,  then  leaned  up  against 
a  truck  side,  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  He  was  not  crying. 
Paul  stood  looking  round,  waiting.  On  the  weighing- 
machine  a  truck  trundled  slowly.  Paul  saw  everything, 
except  his  father  leaning  against  the  truck  as  if  he  were 
tired. 

Morel  had  only  once  before  been  to  London.  He  set 
off,  scared  and  peaked,  to  help  his  wife.  That  was  on 
Tuesday.  The  children  were  left  alone  in  the  house. 
Paul  went  to  work,  Arthur  went  to  school,  and  Annie 
had  in  a  friend  to  be  with  her. 


Death  in  the  Family  171 

On  Saturday  night,  as  Paul  was  turning  the  corner, 
coming  home  from  Keston,  he  saw  his  mother  and  father, 
who  had  come  to  Sethley  Bridge  Station.  They  were 
walking  in  silence  in  the  dark,  tired,  straggling  apart. 
The  boy  waited. 

"  Mother !  "  he  said,  in  the  darkness. 

Mrs.  Morel's  small  figure  seemed  not  to  observe.  He 
spoke  again. 

"  Paul !  "  she  said,  uninterestedly. 

She  let  him  kiss  her,  but  she  seemed  unaware  of  him. 

In  the  house  she  was  the  same  —  small,  white,  and 
mute.  She  noticed  nothing,  she  said  nothing,  only: 

"  The  coffin  will  be  here  to-night,  Walter.  You  'd  bet- 
ter see  about  some  help."  Then,  turning  to  the  children: 
"  We  're  bringing  him  home." 

Then  she  relapsed  into  the  same  mute  looking  into 
space,  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap.  Paul,  looking  at 
her,  felt  he  could  not  breathe.  The  house  was  dead 
silent. 

"  I  went  to  work,  mother,"  he  said  plaintively. 

"  Did  you?  "  she  answered  dully. 

After  half  an  hour  Morel,  troubled  and  bewildered, 
came  in  again. 

"  Wheer  s'll  we  ha'e  him  when  he  does  come?  "  he  asked 
his  wife. 

"  In  the  front  room." 

"  Then  I  'd  better  shift  th'  table?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  An'  ha'e  him  across  th'  chairs?  " 

"  You  know  there  —    Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

Morel  and  Paul  went,  with  a  candle,  into  the  parlour. 
There  was  no  gas  there.  The  father  unscrewed  the  top 
of  the  big  mahogany  oval  table,  and  cleared  the  middle  of 
the  room;  then  he  arranged  six  chairs  opposite  each 
other,  so  that  the  coffin  could  stand  on  their  beds. 

'  You  niver  seed  such  a  length  as   he  is !  "   said  the 
miner,  and  watching  anxiously  as  he  worked. 

Paul  went  to  the  bay  window  and  looked  out.    The  ash- 


172  Sons  and  Lovers 

tree  stood  monstrous  and  black  in  front  of  the  wide  dark- 
ness. It  was  a  faintly  luminous  night.  Paul  went  back 
to  his  mother. 

At  ten  o'clock  Morel  called: 

"He's  here!" 

Everyone  started.  There  was  a  noise  of  unbarring  and 
unlocking  the  front  door,  which  opened  straight  from  the 
night  into  the  room. 

"  Bring  another  candle,"  called  Morel. 

Annie  and  Arthur  went.  Paul  followed  with  his  mother. 
He  stood  with  his  arm  round  her  waist  in  the  inner  door- 
way. Down  the  middle  of  the  cleared  room  waited  six 
chairs,  face  to  face.  In  the  window,  against  the  lace  cur- 
tains, Arthur  held  up  one  candle,  and  by  the  open  door, 
against  the  night,  Annie  stood  leaning  forward,  her  brass 
candlestick  glittering. 

There  was  the  noise  of  wheels.  Outside  in  the  darkness 
of  the  street  below  Paul  could  see  horses  and  a  black 
vehicle,  one  lamp,  and  a  few  pale  faces;  then  some  men, 
miners,  all  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  seemed  to  struggle  in  the 
obscurity.  Presently  two  men  appeared,  bowed  beneath 
a  great  weight.  It  was  Morel  and  his  neighbour. 

"  Steady !  "  called  Morel,  out  of  breath. 

He  and  his  fellow  mounted  the  steep  garden  step,  heaved 
into  the  candle-light  with  their  gleaming  coffin-end. 
Limbs  of  other  men  were  seen  struggling  behind.  Morel 
and  Burns,  in  front,  staggered;  the  great  dark  weight 
swayed. 

"  Steady,  steady !  "  cried  Morel,  as  if  in  pain. 

All  the  six  bearers  were  up  in  the  small  garden,  holding 
the  great  coffin  aloft.  There  were  three  more  steps  to  the 
door.  The  yellow  lamp  of  the  carriage  shone  alone  down 
in  the  black  road. 

"Now  then!  "said  Morel. 

The  coffin  swayed,  the  men  began  to  mount  the  three 
steps  with  their  load.  Annie's  candle  flickered,  and  she 
whimpered  as  the  first  men  appeared,  and  the  limbs  and 
bowed  heads  of  six  men  struggled  to  climb  into  the  room, 


Death  in  the  Family  173 

bearing  the  coffin  that  rode  like  sorrow  on  their  living 
flesh. 

"  Oh,  my  son  —  my  son !  "  Mrs.  Morel  sang  softly,  and 
each  time  the  coffin  swung  to  the  unequal  climbing  of  the 
men :  "  Oh,  my  son  —  my  son  —  my  son !  " 

"  Mother !  "  Paul  whimpered,  his  hand  round  her  waist. 
"Mother!" 

She  did  not  hear. 

"  Oh,  my  son  —  my  son !  "  she  repeated. 

Paul  saw  drops  of  sweat  fall  from  his  father's  brow. 
Six  men  were  in  the  room  —  six  coatless  men,  with  yield- 
ing, struggling  limbs,  filling  the  room  and  knocking  against 
the  furniture.  The  coffin  veered,  and  was  gently  lowered 
on  to  the  chairs.  The  sweat  fell  from  Morel's  face  on 
its  boards. 

"  My  word,  he  's  a  weight !  "  said  a  man,  and  the  five 
miners  sighed,  bowed,  and,  trembling  with  the  struggle, 
descended  the  steps  again,  closing  the  door  behind 
them. 

The  family  was  alone  in  the  parlour  with  the  great 
polished  box.  William,  when  laid  out,  was  six  feet  four 
inches  long.  Like  a  monument  lay  the  bright  brown, 
ponderous  coffin.  Paul  thought  it  would  never  be  got 
out  of  the  room  again.  His  mother  was  stroking  the 
polished  wood. 

They  buried  him  on  the  Monday  in  the  little  cemetery 
on  the  hillside  that  looks  over  the  fields  at  the  big  church 
and  the  houses.  It  was  sunny,  and  the  white  chrysan- 
themums frilled  themselves  in  the  warmth. 

Mrs.  Morel  could  not  be  persuaded,  after  this,  to  talk 
and  take  her  old  bright  interest  in  life.  She  remained 
shut  off.  All  the  way  home  in  the  train  she  had  said  to 
herself :  "  If  only  it  could  have  been  me !  " 

When  Paul  came  home  at  night  he  found  his  mother 
sitting,  her  day's  work  done,  with  hands  folded  in  her  lap 
upon  her  coarse  apron.  She  always  used  to  have  changed 
her  dress  and  put  on  a  black  apron,  before.  Now  Annie 
set  his  supper,  and  his  mother  sat  looking  blankly  in 


174  Sons  and  Lovers 

front  of  her,  her  mouth  shut  tight.  Then  he  beat  his 
brains  for  news  to  tell  her. 

"  Mother,  Miss  Jordan  was  down  to-day,  and  she  said 
my  sketch  of  a  colliery  at  work  was  beautiful." 

But  Mrs.  Morel  took  no  notice.  Night  after  night  he 
forced  himself  to  tell  her  things,  although  she  did  not 
listen.  It  drove  him  almost  insane  to  have  her  thus.  At 
last: 

"  What 's  a-matter,  mother?  "  he  asked. 

She  did  not  hear. 

"  What 's  a-matter  ?  "  he  persisted.  "  Mother,  what 's 
a-matter?  " 

"  You  know  what  's  the  matter,"  she  said  irritably,  turn- 
ing away. 

The  lad  —  he  was  sixteen  years  old  —  went  to  bed 
drearily.  He  was  cut  off  and  wretched  through  October, 
November,  and  December.  His  mother  tried,  but  she  could 
not  rouse  herself.  She  could  only  brood  on  her  dead  son ; 
he  had  been  let  to  die  so  cruelly. 

At  last,  on  December  23,  with  his  five  shillings  Christ- 
mas-box in  his  pocket,  Paul  wandered  blindly  home.  His 
mother  looked  at  him,  and  her  heart  stood  still. 

"  What  's  the  matter?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  'm  badly,  mother !  "  he  replied.  "  Mr.  Jordan  gave 
me  five  shillings  for  a  Christmas-box !  " 

He  handed  it  to  her  with  trembling  hands.  She  put  it 
on  the  table. 

"  You  are  n't  glad !  "  he  reproached  her ;  but  he  trem- 
bled violently. 

"Where  hurts  you?"  she  said,  unbuttoning  his  over- 
coat. 

It  was  the  old  question. 

"  I  feel  badly,  mother." 

She  undressed  him  and  put  him  to  bed.  He  had  pneu- 
monia dangerously,  the  doctor  said. 

"  Might  he  never  have  had  it  if  I  'd  kept  him  at  home, 
not  let  him  go  to  Nottingham?  "  was  one  of  the  first 
things  she  asked. 


Death  in  the  Family  175 

"  He  might  not  have  been  so  bad,"  said  the  doctor. 

Mrs.  Morel  stood  condemned  on  her  own  ground. 

"  I  should  have  watched  the  living,  not  the  dead,"  she 
told  herself. 

Paul  was  very  ill.  His  mother  lay  in  bed  at  nights 
with  him ;  they  could  not  afford  a  nurse.  He  grew  worse, 
and  the  crisis  approached.  One  night  he  tossed  into  con- 
sciousness in  the  ghastly,  sickly  feeling  of  dissolution, 
when  all  the  cells  in  the  boy  seem  in  intense  irritability 
to  be  breaking  down,  and  consciousness  makes  a  last  flare 
of  struggle,  like  madness. 

"  I  s'll  die,  mother !  "  he  cried,  heaving  for  breath  on 
the  pillow. 

She  lifted  him  up,  crying  in  a  small  voice: 

"  Oh,  my  son  —  my  son !  " 

That  brought  him  to.  He  realized  her.  His  whole  will 
rose  up  and  arrested  him.  He  put  his  head  on  her  breast, 
and  took  ease  of  her  for  love. 

"  For  some  things,"  said  his  aunt,  "  it  was  a  good 
thing  Paul  was  ill  that  Christmas.  I  believe  it  saved  his 
mother." 

Paul  was  in  bed  for  seven  weeks.  He  got  up  white  and 
fragile.  His  father  had  bought  him  a  pot  of  scarlet  and 
gold  tulips.  They  used  to  flame  in  the  window  in  the 
March  sunshine  as  he  sat  on  the  sofa  chattering  to  his 
mother.  The  two  knitted  together  in  perfect  intimacy. 
Mrs.  Morel's  life  now  rooted  itself  in  Paul. 

William  had  been  a  prophet.  Mrs.  Morel  had  a  little 
present  and  a  letter  from  Lily  at  Christmas.  Mrs.  Morel's 
sister  had  a  letter  at  the  New  Year. 

"  I  was  at  a  ball  last  night.  Some  delightful  peo- 
ple were  there,  and  I  enjoyed  myself  thoroughly,"  said 
the  letter.  "  I  had  every  dance  —  did  not  sit  out 
one." 

Mrs.  Morel  never  heard  any  more  of  her. 

Morel  and  his  wife  were  gentle  with  each  other  for  some 
time  after  the  death  of  their  son.  He  would  go  into  a 
kind  of  daze,  staring  wide-eyed  and  blank  across  the  room. 


176  Sons  and  Lovers 

Then  he  would  get  up  suddenly  and  hurry  out  to  the  Three 
Spots,  returning  in  his  normal  state.  But  never  in  his 
life  would  he  go  for  a  walk  up  Shepstone,  past  the  office 
where  his  son  had  worked,  and  he  always  avoided  the 
cemetery. 


PART  II 

CHAPTER    VII 

LAD-AND-GIRL    LOVE 

T])AUL  had  been  many  times  up  to  Willey  Farm  during 
JL  the  autumn.  He  was  friends  with  the  two  youngest 
boys.  Edgar,  the  eldest,  would  not  condescend  at  first. 
And  Miriam  also  refused  to  be  approached.  She  was 
afraid  of  being  set  at  nought,  as  by  her  own  brothers. 
The  girl  was  romantic  in  her  soul.  Everywhere  was  a 
Walter  Scott  heroine  being  loved  by  men  with  helmets 
or  with  plumes  in  their  caps.  She  herself  was  something 
of  a  princess  turned  into  a  swine-girl,  in  her  own  imagina- 
tion. And  she  was  afraid  lest  this  boy,  who,  nevertheless, 
looked  something  like  a  Walter  Scott  hero,  who  could 
paint  and  speak  French,  and  knew  what  algebra  meant, 
and  who  went  by  train  to  Nottingham  every  day,  might 
consider  her  simply  as  the  swine-girl,  unable  to  perceive 
the  princess  beneath;  so  she  held  aloof. 

Her  great  companion  was  her  mother.  They  were  both 
brown-eyed,  and  inclined  to  be  mystical,  such  women  as 
treasure  religion  inside  them,  breathe  it  in  their  nostrils, 
and  see  the  whole  of  life  in  a  mist  thereof.  So  to  Miriam, 
Christ  and  God  made  one  great  figure,  which  she  loved 
tremblingly  and  passionately  when  a  tremendous  sunset 
burned  out  the  western  sky,  and  Ediths,  and  Lucys,  and 
Rowenas,  Brian  de  Bois  Guilberts,  Rob  Roys,  and  Guy 
Mannerings,  rustled  the  sunny  leaves  in  the  morning,  or 
sat  in  her  bedroom  aloft,  alone,  when  it  snowed.  That  was 
life  to  her.  For  the  rest,  she  drudged  in  the  house,  which 
work  she  would  not  have  minded  had  not  her  clean  red 
floor  been  mucked  up  immediately  by  the  trampling  farm- 


178  Sons  and  Lovers 

boots  of  her  brothers.  She  madly  wanted  her  little  brother 
of  four  to  let  her  swathe  him  and  stifle  him  in  her  love; 
she  went  to  church  reverently,  with  bowed  head,  and  quiv- 
ered in  anguish  from  the  vulgarity  of  the  other  choir-girls 
and  from  the  common-sounding  voice  of  the  curate;  she 
fought  with  her  brothers,  whom  she  considered  brutal 
louts;  and  she  held  not  her  father  in  too  high  esteem 
because  he  did  not  carry  any  mystical  ideals  cherished  in 
his  heart,  but  only  wanted  to  have  as  easy  a  time  as  he 
could,  and  his  meals  when  he  was  ready  for  them. 

She  hated  her  position  as  swine-girl.  She  wanted  to  be 
considered.  She  wanted  to  learn,  thinking  that  if  she 
could  read,  as  Paul  said  he  could  read,  "  Colomba,"  or 
the  "  Voyage  autour  de  ma  Chambre,"  the  world  would 
have  a  different  face  for  her  and  a  deepened  respect.  She 
could  not  be  princess  by  wealth  or  standing.  So  she  was 
mad  to  have  learning  whereon  to  pride  herself.  For  she 
was  different  from  other  folk,  and  must  not  be  scooped 
up  among  the  common  fry.  Learning  was  the  only  dis- 
tinction to  which  she  thought  to  aspire. 

Her  beauty  —  that  of  a  shy,  wild,  quiveringly  sensitive 
thing  —  seemed  nothing  to  her.  Even  her  soul,  so  strong 
for  rhapsody,  was  not  enough.  She  must  have  something 
to  reinforce  her  pride,  because  she  felt  different  from  other 
people.  Paul  she  eyed  rather  wistfully.  On  the  whole, 
she  scorned  the  male  sex.  But  here  was  a  new  specimen, 
quick,  light,  graceful,  who  could  be  gentle  and  who  could 
be  sad,  and  who  was  clever,  and  who  knew  a  lot,  and  who 
had  a  death  in  the  family.  The  boy's  poor  morsel  of 
learning  exalted  him  almost  sky-high  in  her  esteem.  Yet 
she  tried  hard  to  scorn  him,  because  he  would  not  see 
in  her  the  princess  but  only  the  swine-girl.  And  he 
scarcely  observed  her. 

Then  he  was  so  ill,  and  she  felt  he  would  be  weak. 
Then  she  would  be  stronger  than  he.  Then  she  could  love 
him.  If  she  could  be  mistress  of  him  in  his  weakness, 
take  care  of  him,  if  he  could  depend  on  her,  if  she  could, 
as  it  were,  have  him  in  her  arms,  how  she  would  love  him ! 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  179 

As  soon  as  the  skies  brightened  and  plum-blossom  was 
out,  Paul  drove  off  in  the  milkman's  heavy  float  up  to 
Willey  Farm.  Mr.  Leivers  shouted  in  a  kindly  fashion 
at  the  boy,  then  clicked  to  the  horse  as  they  climbed  the 
hill  slowly,  in  the  freshness  of  the  morning.  White  clouds 
went  on  their  way,  crowding  to  the  back  of  the  hills  that 
were  rousing  in  the  springtime.  The  water  of  Nethermere 
lay  below,  very  blue  against  the  seared  meadows  and  the 
thorn-trees. 

It  was  four  and  a  half  miles'  drive.  Tiny  buds  on  the 
hedges,  vivid  as  copper-green,  were  opening  into  rosettes ; 
and  thrushes  called,  and  blackbirds  shrieked  and  scolded. 
It  was  a  new,  glamorous  world. 

Miriam,  peeping  through  the  kitchen  window,  saw  the 
horse  walk  through  the  big  white  gate  into  the  farmyard 
that  was  backed  by  the  oak-wood,  still  bare.  Then  a 
youth  in  a  heavy  overcoat  climbed  down.  He  put  up  his 
hands  for  the  whip  and  the  rug  that  the  good-looking, 
ruddy  farmer  handed  down  to  him. 

Miriam  appeared  in  the  doorway.  She  was  nearly  six- 
teen, very  beautiful,  with  her  warm  colouring,  her  gravity, 
her  eyes  dilating  suddenly  like  an  ecstasy. 

"  I  say,"  said  Paul,  turning  shyly  aside,  "  your  daffo- 
dils are  nearly  out.  Is  n't  it  early  ?  But  don't  they  look 
cold?  " 

"  Cold !  "  said  Miriam,  in  her  musical,  caressing  voice. 

"  The  green  on  their  buds  — "  and  he  faltered  into 
silence  timidly. 

"  Let  me  take  the  rug,"  said  Miriam  over-gently. 

"  I  can  carry  it,"  he  answered,  rather  injured.  But 
lie  yielded  it  to  her. 

Then  Mrs.  Leivers  appeared. 

"  I  m  sure  you  're  tired  and  cold,"  she  said.  "  Let  me 
take  your  coat.  It  is  heavy.  You  must  n't  walk  far  in  it." 

She  helped  him  off  with  his  coat.  He  was  quite  unused 
to  such  attention.  She  was  almost  smothered  under  its 
weight. 

"  Why,   mother,"   laughed   the    farmer   as    he   passed 


180  Sons  and  Lovers 

through  the  kitchen,  swinging  the  great  milk-churns, 
"  you  Ve  got  almost  more  than  you  can  manage  there." 

She  beat  up  the  sofa  cushions  for  the  youth. 

The  kitchen  was  very  small  and  irregular.  The  farm 
had  been  originally  a  labourer's  cottage.  And  the  furni- 
ture was  old  and  battered.  But  Paul  loved  it  —  loved 
the  sack-bag  that  formed  the  hearthrug,  and  the  funny 
little  corner  under  the  stairs,  and  the  small  window  deep 
in  the  corner,  through  which,  bending  a  little,  he  could  see 
the  plum-trees  in  the  back-garden  and  the  lovely  round 
hills  beyond. 

"  Won't  you  lie  down?  "  said  Mrs.  Leivers. 

"  Oh  no ;  I  'm  not  tired,"  he  said.  "  Is  n't  it  lovely 
coming  out,  don't  you  think?  I  saw  a  sloe-bush  in  blos- 
som and  a  lot  of  celandines.  I  'm  glad  it 's  sunny." 

"  Can  I  give  you  anything  to  eat  or  to  drink?  " 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"  How  's  your  mother?  " 

"  I  think  she  's  tired  now.  I  think  she  's  had  too  much 
to  do.  Perhaps  in  a  little  while  she  '11  go  to  Skegness 
with  me.  Then  she  '11  be  able  to  rest.  I  s'll  be  glad  if 
she  can." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Leivers.  "  It  's  a  wonder  she  is  n't 
ill  herself." 

Miriam  was  moving  about  preparing  dinner.  Paul 
watched  everything  that  happened.  His  face  was  pale 
and  thin,  but  his  eyes  were  quick  and  bright  with  life  as 
ever.  He  watched  the  strange,  almost  rhapsodic  way  in 
which  the  girl  moved  about,  carrying  a  great  stew-jar 
to  the  oven,  or  looking  in  the  saucepan.  The  atmosphere 
was  different  from  that  of  his  own  home,  where  everything 
seemed  so  ordinary.  When  Mr.  Leivers  called  loudly  out- 
side to  the  horse,  that  was  reaching  over  to  feed  on  the 
rose-bushes  in  the  garden,  the  girl  started,  looked  round 
with  dark  eyes,  as  if  something  had  come  breaking  in  on 
her  world.  There  was  a  sense  of  silence  inside  the  house 
and  out.  Miriam  seemed  as  in  some  dreamy  tale,  a  maiden 
in  bondage,  her  spirit  dreaming  in  a  land  far  away  and 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  181 

magical.  And  her  discoloured,  old  blue  frock  and  her 
broken  boots  seemed  only  like  the  romantic  rags  of  King 
Cophetua's  beggar-maid. 

She  suddenly  became  aware  of  his  keen  blue  eyes  upon 
her,  taking  her  all  in.  Instantly  her  broken  boots  and  her 
frayed  old  frock  hurt  her.  She  resented  his  seeing  every- 
thing. Even  he  knew  that  her  stocking  was  not  pulled  up. 
She  went  into  the  scullery,  blushing  deeply.  And  after- 
wards her  hands  trembled  slightly  at  her  work.  She 
nearly  dropped  all  she  handled.  When  her  inside  dream 
was  shaken,  her  body  quivered  with  trepidation.  She  re- 
sented that  he  saw  so  much. 

Mrs.  Leivers  sat  for  some  time  talking  to  the  boy, 
although  she  was  needed  at  her  work.  She  was  too  polite 
to  leave  him.  Presently  she  excused  herself  and  rose. 
After  a  while  she  looked  into  the  tin  saucepan. 

"  Oh  dear,  Miriam,"  she  cried,  "  these  potatoes  have 
boiled  dry!" 

Miriam  started  as  if  she  had  been  stung. 

"  Have  they,  mother?  "  she  cried. 

"  I  should  n't  care,  Miriam,"  said  the  mother,  "  if  I 
had  n't  trusted  them  to  you."  She  peered  into  the  pan. 

The  girl  stiffened  as  if  from  a  blow.  Her  dark  eyes 
dilated;  she  remained  standing  in  the  same  spot. 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  gripped  tight  in  self-conscious 
shame,  "  I  'm  sure  I  looked  at  them  five  minutes  since." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  mother,  "  I  know  it 's  easily  done." 

"  They  're  not  much  burned,"  said  Paul.  "  It  does  n't 
matter,  does  it?  " 

Mrs.  Leivers  looked  at  the  youth  with  her  brown,  hurt 
eyes. 

"  It  would  n't  matter  but  for  the  boys,"  she  said  to  him. 
"  Only  Miriam  knows  what  a  trouble  they  make  if  the 
potatoes  are  '  caught.'  " 

"  Then,"  thought  Paul  to  himself,  "  you  should  n't  let 
them  make  a  trouble." 

After  a  while  Edgar  came  in.  He  wore  leggings,  and 
his  boots  were  covered  with  earth.  He  was  rather  small, 


182  Sons  and  Lovers 

rather  formal,  for  a  farmer.  He  glanced  at  Paul,  nodded 
to  him  distantly,  and  said : 

"  Dinner  ready?  " 

"  Nearly,  Edgar,"  replied  the  mother  apologetically. 

"  I  'm  ready  for  mine,"  said  the  young  man,  taking  up 
the  newspaper  and  reading.  Presently  the  rest  of  the 
family  trooped  in.  Dinner  was  served.  The  meal  went 
rather  brutally.  The  over-gentleness  and  apologetic  tone 
of  the  mother  brought  out  all  the  brutality  of  manners 
in  the  sons.  Edgar  tasted  the  potatoes,  moved  his  mouth 
quickly  like  a  rabbit,  looked  indignantly  at  his  mother, 
and  said: 

"  These  potatoes  are  burnt,  mother." 

"  Yes,  Edgar.  I  forgot  them  for  a  minute.  Perhaps 
you  '11  have  bread  if  you  can't  eat  them." 

Edgar  looked  in  anger  across  at  Miriam. 

"  What  was  Miriam  doing  that  she  could  n't  attend  to 
them?  "  he  said. 

Miriam  looked  up.  Her  mouth  opened,  her  dark  eyes 
blazed  and  winced,  but  she  said  nothing.  She  swallowed 
her  anger  and  her  shame,  bowing  her  dark  head. 

"  I  'm  sure  she  was  trying  hard,"  said  the  mother. 

"  She  has  n't  got  sense  even  to  boil  the  potatoes,"  said 
Edgar.  "  What  is  she  kept  at  home  for?  " 

"  On'y  for  eating  everything  that 's  left  in  th'  pantry," 
said  Maurice. 

"  They  don't  forget  that  potato-pie  against  our 
Miriam,"  laughed  the  father. 

She  was  utterly  humiliated.  The  mother  sat  in  silence, 
suffering,  like  some  saint  out  of  place  at  the  brutal  board. 

It  puzzled  Paul.  He  wondered  vaguely  why  all  this 
intense  feeling  went  running  because  of  a  few  burnt 
potatoes.  The  mother  exalted  everything  —  even  a  bit 
of  housework  —  to  the  plane  of  a  religious  trust.  The 
sons  resented  this ;  they  felt  themselves  cut  away  under- 
neath, and  they  answered  with  brutality  and  also  with  a 
sneering  superciliousness. 

Paul  was  just  opening  out  from  childhood  into  man- 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  183 

hood.  This  atmosphere,  where  everything  took  a  religious 
value,  came  with  a  subtle  fascination  to  him.  There  was 
something  in  the  air.  His  own  mother  was  logical.  Here 
there  was  something  different,  something  he  loved,  some- 
thing that  at  times  he  hated. 

Miriam  quarrelled  with  her  brothers  fiercely.  Later  in 
the  afternoon,  when  they  had  gone  away  again,  her  mother 
said: 

"  You  disappointed  me  at  dinner-time,  Miriam." 

The  girl  dropped  her  head. 

"  They  are  such  brutes!  "  she  suddenly  cried,  looking 
up  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  But  had  n't  you  promised  not  to  answer  them?  "  said 
the  mother.  "  And  I  believed  in  you.  I  can't  stand  it 
when  you  wrangle." 

"  But  they  're  so  hateful !  "  cried  Miriam,  "  and  —  and 
low." 

"  Yes,  dear.  But  how  often  have  I  asked  you  not  to 
answer  Edgar  back?  Can't  you  let  him  say  what  he 
likes?" 

"  But  why  should  he  say  what  he  likes  ?  " 

"  Are  n't  you  strong  enough  to  bear  it,  Miriam,  if  even 
for  my  sake?  Are  you  so  weak  that  you  must  wrangle 
with  them?  " 

Mrs.  Leivers  stuck  unflinchingly  to  this  doctrine  of 
"  the  other  cheek."  She  could  not  instil  it  at  all  into 
the  boys.  With  the  girls  she  succeeded  better,  and  Miriam 
was  the  child  of  her  heart.  The  boys  loathed  the  other 
cheek  when  it  was  presented  to  them.  Miriam  was  often 
sufficiently  lofty  to  turn  it.  Then  they  spat  on  her  and 
hated  her.  But  she  walked  in  her  proud  humility,  living 
within  herself. 

There  was  always  this  feeling  of  jangle  and  discord  in 
the  Leivers  family.  Although  the  boys  resented  so  bitterly 
this  eternal  appeal  to  their  deeper  feelings  of  resignation 
and  proud  humility,  yet  it  had  its  effect  on  them.  They 
could  not  establish  between  themselves  and  an  outsider 
just  the  ordinary  human  feeling  and  unexaggerated 


184  Sons  and  Lovers 

friendship;  they  were  always  restless  for  the  something 
deeper.  Ordinary  folk  seemed  shallow  to  them,  trivial 
and  inconsiderable.  And  so  they  were  unaccustomed, 
painfully  uncouth  in  the  simplest  social  intercourse,  suffer- 
ing, and  yet  insolent  in  their  superiority.  Then  beneath 
was  the  yearning  for  the  soul-intimacy  to  which  they  could 
not  attain  because  they  were  too  dumb,  and  every  ap- 
proach to  close  connection  was  blocked  by  their  clumsy 
contempt  of  other  people.  They  wanted  genuine  intimacy, 
but  they  could  not  get  even  normally  near  to  anyone,  be- 
cause they  scorned  to  take  the  first  steps,  they  scorned 
the  triviality  which  forms  common  human  intercourse. 

Paul  fell  under  Mrs.  Leiver's  spell.  Everything  had 
a  religious  and  intensified  meaning  when  he  was  with  her. 
His  soul,  hurt,  highly  developed,  sought  her  as  if  for 
nourishment.  Together  they  seemed  to  sift  the  vital  fact 
from  an  experience. 

Miriam  was  her  mother's  daughter.  In  the  sunshine  of 
the  afternoon  mother  and  daughter  went  down  the  fields 
with  him.  They  looked  for  nests.  There  was  a  jenny 
wren's  in  the  hedge  by  the  orchard. 

"  I  do  want  you  to  see  this,"  said  Mrs.  Leivers. 

He  crouched  down  and  carefully  put  his  finger  through 
the  thorns  into  the  round  door  of  the  nest. 

"  It 's  almost  as  if  you  were  feeling  inside  the  live  body 
of  the  bird,"  he  said,  "  it 's  so  warm.  They  say  a  bird 
makes  its  nest  round  like  a  cup  with  pressing  its  breast  on 
it.  Then  how  did  it  make  the  ceiling  round,  I  wonder?  " 

The  nest  seemed  to  start  into  life  for  the  two  women. 
After  that,  Miriam  came  to  see  it  every  day.  It  seemed  so 
close  to  her.  Again,  going  down  the  hedgeside  with  the 
girl,  he  noticed  the  celandines,  scalloped  splashes  of  gold, 
on  the  side  of  the  ditch. 

"  I  like  them,"  he  said,  "  when  their  petals  go  flat  back 
with  the  sunshine.  They  seem  to  be  pressing  themselves 
at  the  sun." 

And  then  the  celandines  ever  after  drew  her  with  a  little 
spell.  Anthropomorphic  as  she  was,  she  stimulated  him 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  185 

into  appreciating  things  thus,  and  then  they  lived  for  her. 
She  seemed  to  need  things  kindling  in  her  imagination  or 
in  her  soul  before  she  felt  she  had  them.  And  she  was 
cut  off  from  ordinary  life  by  her  religious  intensity  which 
made  the  world  for  her  either  a  nunnery  garden  or  a 
paradise,  where  sin  and  knowledge  were  not,  or  else  an 
ugly,  cruel  thing. 

So  it  was  in  this  atmosphere  of  subtle  intimacy,  this 
meeting  in  their  common  feeling  for  something  in  nature, 
that  their  love  started. 

Personally,  he  was  a  long  time  before  he  realized  her. 
For  ten  months  he  had  to  stay  at  home  after  his  illness. 
For  a  while  he  went  to  Skegness  with  his  mother,  and  was 
perfectly  happy.  But  even  from  the  seaside  he  wrote  long 
letters  to  Mrs.  Leivers  about  the  shore  and  the  sea.  And 
he  brought  back  his  beloved  sketches  of  the  flat  Lincoln 
coast,  anxious  for  them  to  see.  Almost  they  would  inter- 
est the  Leivers  more  than  they  interested  his  mother.  It 
was  not  his  art  Mrs.  Morel  cared  about ;  it  was  himself 
and  his  achievement.  But  Mrs.  Leivers  and  her  children 
were  almost  his  disciples.  They  kindled  him  and  made 
him  glow  to  his  work,  whereas  his  mother's  influence  was 
to  make  him  quietly  determined,  patient,  dogged,  un- 
wearied. 

He  soon  was  friends  with  the  boys,  whose  rudeness  was 
only  superficial.  They  had  all,  when  they  could  trust 
themselves,  a  strange  gentleness  and  lovableness. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  on  to  the  fallow?  "  asked 
Edgar,  rather  hesitatingly. 

Paul  went  joyfully,  and  spent  the  afternoon  helping 
to  hoe  or  to  single  turnips  with  his  friend.  He  used  to 
lie  with  the  three  brothers  in  the  hay  piled  up  in  the  barn, 
and  tell  them  about  Nottingham  and  about  Jordan's.  In 
return,  they  taught  him  to  milk,  and  let  him  do  little  jobs 
—  chopping  hay  or  pulping  turnips  —  just  as  much  as 
he  liked.  At  midsummer  he  worked  all  through  hay- 
harvest  with  them,  and  then  he  loved  them.  The  family 
was  so  cut  off  from  the  world,  actually.  They  seemed, 


186  Sons  and  Lovers 

somehow,  like  "  les  derniers  fils  d'une  race  epuisee." 
Though  the  lads  were  strong  and  healthy,  yet  they  had 
all  that  over-sensitiveness  and  hanging-back  which  made 
them  so  lonely,  yet  also  such  close,  delicate  friends  once 
their  intimacy  was  won.  Paul  loved  them  dearly,  and  they 
him. 

Miriam  came  later.  But  he  had  come  into  her  life  be- 
fore she  made  any  mark  on  his.  One  dull  afternoon,  when 
the  men  were  on  the  land  and  the  rest  at  school,  only 
Miriam  and  her  mother  at  home,  the  girl  said  to  him, 
after  having  hesitated  for  some  time: 

"  Have  you  seen  the  swing?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered.     "  Where?  " 

"  In  the  cowshed,"  she  replied. 

She  always  hesitated  to  offer  or  to  show  him  anything. 
Men  have  such  different  standards  of  worth  from  women, 
and  her  dear  things  —  the  valuable  things  to  her  —  her 
brothers  had  so  often  mocked  or  flouted. 

"  Come  on,  then,"  he  replied,  jumping  up. 

There  were  two  cowsheds,  one  on  either  side  of  the  barn. 
In  the  lower,  darker  shed  there  was  standing  for  four 
cows.  Hens  flew  scolding  over  the  manger-wall  as  the 
youth  and  girl  went  forward  for  the  great  thick  rope 
which  hung  from  the  beam  in  the  darkness  overhead,  and 
was  pushed  back  over  a  peg  in  the  wall. 

"  It 's  something  like  a  rope !  "  he  exclaimed  appreci- 
atively; and  he  sat  down  on  it,  anxious  to  try  it.  Then 
immediately  he  rose. 

"  Come  on,  then,  and  have  first  go,"  he  said  to  the  girl. 

"  See,"  she  answered,  going  into  the  barn,  "  we  put  some 
bags  on  the  seat  " ;  and  she  made  the  swing  comfortable 
for  him.  That  gave  her  pleasure.  He  held  the  rope. 

"  Come  on,  then,"  he  said  to  her. 

"  No,  I  won't  go  first,"  she  answered. 

She  stood  aside  in  her  still,  aloof  fashion. 

"Why?" 

"  You  go,"  she  pleaded. 

Almost  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had  the  pleasure 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  187 

of  giving  up  to  a  man,  of  spoiling  him.  Paul  looked  at 
her. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  sitting  down.    "  Mind  out !  " 

He  set  off  with  a  spring,  and  in  a  moment  was  flying 
through  the  air,  almost  out  of  the  door  of  the  shed,  the 
upper  half  of  which  was  open,  showing  outside  the  driz- 
zling rain,  the  filthy  yard,  the  cattle  standing  disconsolate 
against  the  black  cart-shed,  and  at  the  back  of  all  the 
grey-green  wall  of  the  wood.  She  stood  below  in  her 
crimson  tam-o'-shanter  and  watched.  He  looked  down 
at  her,  and  she  saw  his  blue  eyes  sparkling. 

"  It  Js  a  treat  of  a  swing,"  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

He  was  swinging  through  the  air,  every  bit  of  him 
swinging,  like  a  bird  that  swoops  for  joy  of  movement. 
And  he  looked  down  at  her.  Her  crimson  cap  hung  over 
her  dark  curls,  her  beautiful  warm  face,  so  still  in  a  kind 
of  brooding,  was  lifted  towards  him.  It  was  dark  and 
rather  cold  in  the  shed.  Suddenly  a  swallow  came  down 
from  the  high  roof  and  darted  out  of  the  door. 

"  I  did  n't  know  a  bird  was  watching,"  he  called. 

He  swung  negligently.  She  could  feel  him  falling  and 
lifting  through  the  air,  as  if  he  were  lying  on  some  force. 

"  Now  I  '11  die,"  he  said,  in  a  detached,  dreamy  voice,  as 
though  he  were  the  dying  motion  of  the  swing.  She 
watched  him,  fascinated.  Suddenly  he  put  on  the  brake 
and  jumped  out. 

"  I  've  had  a  long  turn,"  he  said.  "  But  it 's  a  treat  of 
a  swing  —  it 's  a  real  treat  of  a  swing !  " 

Miriam  was  amused  that  he  took  a  swing  so  seriously 
and  felt  so  warmly  over  it. 

"  No ;   you  go  on,"  she  said. 

"  Why,  don't  you  want  one  ?  "  he  asked,  astonished. 

"  WeU,  not  much.     I  '11  have  just  a  little." 

She  sat  down,  whilst  he  kept  the  bags  in  place  for  her. 

"  It 's  so  ripping ! "  he  said,  setting  her  in  motion. 
"  Keep  your  heels  up,  or  they  '11  bang  the  manger-wall." 

She  felt  the  accuracy  with  which  he  caught  her,  exactly 


188  Sons  and  Lovers 

at  the  right  moment,  and  the  exactly  proportionate 
strength  of  his  thrust,  and  she  was  afraid.  Down  to  her 
bowels  went  the  hot  wave  of  fear.  She  was  in  his  hands. 
Again,  firm  and  inevitable  came  the  thrust  at  the  right 
moment.  She  gripped  the  rope,  almost  swooning. 

"  Ha !  "  she  laughed  in  fear.    "  No  higher !  " 

"  But  you  're  not  a  bit  high,"  he  remonstrated. 

"  But  no  higher." 

He  heard  the  fear  in  her  voice,  and  desisted.  Her  heart 
melted  in  hot  pain  when  the  moment  came  for  him  to 
thrust  her  forward  again.  But  he  left  her  alone.  She 
began  to  breathe. 

"  Won't  you  really  go  any  farther? "  he  asked. 
"  Should  I  keep  you  there?  " 

"  No ;    let  me  go  by  myself,"  she  answered. 

He  moved  aside  and  watched  her. 

"  Why,  you  're  scarcely  moving,"  he  said. 

She  laughed  slightly  with  shame,  and  in  a  moment  got 
down. 

"  They  say  if  you  can  swing  you  won't  be  sea-sick,"  he 
said,  as  he  mounted  again.  "  I  don't  believe  I  should  ever 
be  sea-sick." 

Away  he  went.  There  was  something  fascinating  to 
her  in  him.  For  the  moment  he  was  nothing  but  a  piece 
of  swinging  stuff;  not  a  particle  of  him  that  did  not 
swing.  She  could  never  lose  herself  so,  nor  could  her 
brothers.  It  roused  a  warmth  in  her.  It  were  almost  as 
if  he  were  a  flame  that  had  lit  a  warmth  in  her  whilst  he 
swung  in  the  middle  air. 

And  gradually  the  intimacy  with  the  family  concen- 
trated for  Paul  on  three  persons  —  the  mother,  Edgar, 
and  Miriam.  To  the  mother  he  went  for  that  sympathy 
and  that  appeal  which  seemed  to  draw  him  out.  Edgar 
was  his  very  close  friend.  And  to  Miriam  he  more  or 
less  condescended,  because  she  seemed  so  humble. 

But  the  girl  gradually  sought  him  out.  If  he  brought 
up  his  sketch-book,  it  was  she  who  pondered  longest 
over  the  last  picture.  Then  she  would  look  up  at  him. 


Lad-and-Girl  Love,  189 

Suddenly,  her  dark  eyes  alight  like  water  that  shakes 
with  a  stream  of  gold  in  the  dark,  she  would  ask: 

"Why  do  I  like  this  so?" 

Always  something  in  his  breast  shrank  from  these  close, 
intimate,  dazzled  looks  of  hers. 

"Why  do  you?"  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know.    It  seems  so  true." 

"  It  's  because  —  it 's  because  there  is  scarcely  any 
shadow  in  it ;  it  's  more  shimmery,  as  if  I  'd  painted  the 
shimmering  protoplasm  in  the  leaves  and  everywhere,  and 
not  the  stiffness  of  the  shape.  That  seems  dead  to  me. 
Only  this  shimmer iness  is  the  real  living.  The  shape  is  a 
dead  crust.  The  shimmer  is  inside  really." 

And  she,  with  her  little  finger  in  her  mouth,  would  pon- 
der these  sayings.  They  gave  her  a  feeling  of  life  again, 
and  vivified  things  which  had  meant  nothing  to  her.  She 
managed  to  find  some  meaning  in  his  struggling,  abstract 
speeches.  And  they  were  the  medium  through  which  she 
came  distinctly  at  her  beloved  objects. 

Another  day  she  sat  at  sunset  whilst  he  was  painting 
some  pine-trees  which  caught  the  red  glare  from  the  west. 
He  had  been  quiet. 

"  There  you  are !  "  he  said  suddenly.  "  I  wanted  that. 
Now,  look  at  them  and  tell  me,  are  they  pine-trunks  or 
are  they  red  coals,  standing-up  pieces  of  fire  in  that 
darkness  ?  There  's  God's  burning  bush  for  you,  that 
burned  not  away." 

Miriam  looked,  and  was  frightened.  But  the  pine- 
trunks  were  wonderful  to  her,  and  distinct.  He  packed 
his  box  and  rose.  Suddenly  he  looked  at  her. 

"  Why  are  you  always  sad?  "  he  asked  her. 

"  Sad !  "  she  exclaimed,  looking  up  at  him  with  startled, 
wonderful  brown  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.     "  You  are  always,  always  sad." 

"  I  am  not  —  oh,  not  a  bit !  "  she  cried. 

"But  even  your  joy  is  like  a  flame  coming  off  of  sad- 
ness," he  persisted.  "  You  're  never  jolly  or  even  just  all 
right." 


190  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  No,"  she  pondered.    "  I  wonder  —  why." 

"  Because  you  're  not ;  because  you  're  different  inside, 
like  a  pine-tree,  and  then  you  flare  up ;  but  you  're  not  just 
like  an  ordinary  tree,  with  fidgety  leaves  and  j  oily  —  " 

He  got  tangled  up  in  his  own  speech ;  but  she  brooded 
on  it,  and  he  had  a  strange,  roused  sensation,  as  if  his 
feelings  were  new.  She  got  so  near  him.  It  was  a  strange 
stimulant. 

Then  sometimes  he  hated  her.  Her  youngest  brother 
was  only  five.  He  was  a  frail  lad,  with  immense  brown 
eyes  in  his  quaint,  fragile  face  —  one  of  Reynolds's 
"  Choir  of  Angels,"  with  a  touch  of  elf.  Often  Miriam 
kneeled  to  the  child  and  drew  him  to  her. 

"  Eh,  my  Hubert !  "  she  sang,  in  a  voice  heavy  and 
surcharged  with  love.  "  Eh,  my  Hubert !  " 

And,  folding  him  in  her  arms,  she  swayed  slightly  from 
side  to  side  with  love,  her  face  half  lifted,  her  eyes  half 
closed,  her  voice  drenched  with  love. 

"  Don't !  "  said  the  child,  uneasy  —  "  don't,  Miriam !  " 

"  Yes ;  you  love  me,  don't  you  ?  "  she  murmured  deep 
in  her  throat,  almost  as  if  she  were  in  a  trance,  and  sway- 
ing also  as  if  she  were  swooned  in  an  ecstasy  of  love. 

"  Don't !  "  repeated  the  child,  a  frown  on  his  clear  brow. 

"  You  love  me,  don't  you?  "  she  murmured. 

"  What  do  you  make  such  a  fuss  for  ?  "  cried  Paul,  all 
in  suffering  because  of  her  extreme  emotion.  "  Why  can't 
you  be  ordinary  with  him?  " 

She  let  the  child  go,  and  rose,  and  said  nothing.  Her 
intensity,  which  would  leave  no  emotion  on  a  normal  plane, 
irritated  the  youth  into  a  frenzy.  And  this  tearful,  naked 
contact  of  her  on  small  occasions  shocked  him.  He  was 
used  to  his  mother's  reserve.  And  on  such  occasions  he 
was  thankful  in  his  heart  and  soul  that  he  had  his  mother, 
so  sane  and  wholesome. 

All  the  life  of  Miriam's  body  was  in  her  eyes,  which 
were  usually  dark  as  a  dark  church,  but  could  flame  with 
light  like  a  conflagration.  Her  face  scarcely  ever  altered 
from  its  look  of  brooding.  She  might  have  been  one  of  the 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  191 

women  who  went  with  Mary  when  Jesus  was  dead.  Her 
body  was  not  flexible  and  living.  She  walked  with  a  swing, 
rather  heavily,  her  head  bowed  forward,  pondering.  She 
was  not  clumsy,  and  yet  none  of  her  movements  seemed 
quite  the  movement.  Often,  when  wiping  the  dishes,  she 
would  stand  in  bewilderment  and  chagrin  because  she  had 
pulled  in  two  halves  a  cup  or  a  tumbler.  It  was  as  if, 
in  her  fear  and  self-mistrust,  she  put  too  much  strength 
into  the  effort.  There  was  no  looseness  or  abandon  about 
her.  Everything  was  gripped  stiff  with  intensity,  and  her 
effort,  overcharged,  closed  in  on  itself. 

She  rarely  varied  from  her  swinging,  forward,  intense 
walk.  Occasionally  she  ran  with  Paul  down  the  fields. 
Then  her  eyes  blazed  naked  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy  that 
frightened  him.  But  she  was  physically  afraid.  If  she 
were  getting  over  a  stile,  she  gripped  his  hands  in  a  little 
hard  anguish,  and  began  to  lose  her  presence  of  mind. 
And  he  could  not  persuade  her  to  jump  from  even  a 
small  height.  Her  eyes  dilated,  became  exposed  and 
palpitating. 

"  No !  "  she  cried,  half  laughing  in  terror  —  "  no !  " 

"  You  shall!  "  he  cried  once,  and,  jerking  her  forward, 
he  brought  her  falling  from  the  fence.  But  her  wild 
"  Ah !  "  of  pain,  as  if  she  were  losing  consciousness,  cut 
him.  She  landed  on  her  feet  safely,  and  afterwards  had 
courage  in  this  respect. 

She  was  very  much  dissatisfied  with  her  lot. 

"  Don't  you  like  being  at  home  ?  "  Paul  asked  her, 
surprised. 

"  Who  would?  "  she  answered,  low  and  intense.  "  What 
is  it?  I  'm  all  day  cleaning  what  the  boys  make  just  as 
bad  in  five  minutes.  I  don't  want  to  be  at  home." 

"  What  do  you  want,  then?  " 

"  I  want  to  do  something.  I  want  a  chance  like  any- 
body else.  Why  should  I,  because  I  'm  a  girl,  be  kept  at 
home  and  not  allowed  to  be  anything?  What  chance 
have  I?  " 

"Chance  of  what?" 


192  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Of  knowing  anything  —  of  learning,  of  doing  any- 
thing. It 's  not  fair,  because  I  'm  a  woman." 

She  seemed  very  bitter.  Paul  wondered.  In  his  own 
home  Annie  was  almost  glad  to  be  a  girl.  She  had  not 
so  much  responsibility;  things  were  lighter  for  her.  She 
never  wanted  to  be  other  than  a  girl.  But  Miriam  almost 
fiercely  wished  she  were  a  man.  And  yet  she  hated  men 
at  the  same  time. 

"  But  it 's  as  well  to  be  a  woman  as  a  man,"  he  said, 
frowning. 

"  Ha!    Is  it?    Men  have  everything." 

"  I  should  think  women  ought  to  be  as  glad  to  be  women 
as  men  are  to  be  men,"  he  answered. 

"  No !  "  she  shook  her  head  —  "  no !  Everything  the 
men  have." 

"But  what  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 

"  I  want  to  learn.  Why  should  it  be  that  I  know 
nothing?  " 

"  What!  such  as  mathematics  and  French?  " 

"Why  shouldn't  I  know  mathematics?  Yes!"  she 
cried,  her  eye  expanding  in  a  kind  of  defiance. 

"  Well,  you  can  learn  as  much  as  I  know,"  he  said. 
"  I  '11  teach  you,  if  you  like." 

Her  eyes  dilated.     She  mistrusted  him  as  teacher. 

"Would  you?"  he  asked. 

Her  head  had  dropped,  and  she  was  sucking  her  finger 
broodingly. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  hesitatingly. 

He  used  to  tell  his  mother  all  these  things. 

"  I  'm  going  to  teach  Miriam  algebra,"  he  said. 

"  Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Morel,  "  I  hope  she  '11  get  fat 
on  it." 

When  he  went  up  to  the  farm  on  the  Monday  evening, 
it  was  drawing  twilight.  Miriam  was  just  sweeping  up  the 
kitchen,  and  was  kneeling  at  the  hearth  when  he  entered. 
Everyone  was  out  but  her.  She  looked  round  at  him, 
flushed,  her  dark  eyes  shining,  her  fine  hair  falling  about 
her  face. 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  193 

"  Hello !  "  she  said,  soft  and  musical.*  "  I  knew  it  was 
you." 

"How?" 

"  I  knew  your  step.    Nobody  treads  so  quick  and  firm." 

He  sat  down,  sighing. 

"  Ready  to  do  some  algebra?  "  he  asked,  drawing  a  little 
book  from  his  pocket. 

"  But  —  " 

He  could  feel  her  backing  away. 

"  You  said  you  wanted,"  he  insisted. 

"  To-night,  though?  "  she  faltered. 

"  But  I  came  on  purpose.  And  if  you  want  to  learn 
it,  you  must  begin." 

She  took  up  her  ashes  in  the  dustpan  and  looked  at 
him,  half  tremulously,  laughing. 

"  Yes,  but  to-night !  You  see,  I  have  n't  thought 
of  it." 

"  Well,  my  goodness !     Take  the  ashes  and  come." 

He  went  and  sat  on  the  stone  bench  in  the  back-yard, 
where  the  big  milk-cans  were  standing,  tipped  up,  to  air. 
The  men  were  in  the  cowsheds.  He  could  hear  the  little 
sing-song  of  the  milk  spurting  into  the  pails.  Presently 
she  came,  bringing  some  big  greenish  apples. 

"  You  know  you  like  them,"  she  said. 

He  took  a  bite. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said,  with  his  mouth  full. 

She  was  short-sighted,  and  peered  over  his  shoulder. 
It  irritated  him.  He  gave  her  the  book  quickly. 

"  Here,"  he  said.  "  It 's  only  letters  for  figures.  You 
put  down  '  a  '  instead  of  '  2  '  or  *  6.'  " 

They  worked,  he  talking,  she  with  her  head  down  on 
the  book.  He  was  quick  and  hasty.  She  never  answered. 
Occasionally,  when  he  demanded  of  her,  "Do  you  see?" 
she  looked  up  at  him,  her  eyes  wide  with  the  half-laugh 
that  comes  of  fear.  "  Don't  you?  "  he  cried. 

He  had  been  too  fast.  But  she  said  nothing.  He  ques- 
tioned her  more,  then  got  hot.  It  made  his  blood  rouse 
to  see  her  there,  as  it  were,  at  his  mercy,  her  mouth  open, 


194  Sons  and  Lovers 

her  eyes  dilated  with  laughter  that  was  afraid,  apologetic, 
ashamed.  Then  Edgar  came  along  with  two  buckets  of 
milk. 

"  Hello  !  "  he  said.     "  What  are  you  doing?  " 

"  Algebra,"  replied  Paul. 

"  Algebra !  "  repeated  Edgar  curiously.  Then  he  passed 
on  with  a  laugh.  Paul  took  a  bite  at  his  forgotten  apple, 
looked  at  the  miserable  cabbages  in  the  garden,  pecked 
into  lace  by  the  fowls,  and  he  wanted  to  pull  them  up. 
Then  he  glanced  at  Miriam.  She  was  poring  over  the 
book,  seemed  absorbed  in  it,  yet  trembling  lest  she  could 
not  get  at  it.  It  made  him  cross.  She  was  ruddy  and 
beautiful.  Yet  her  soul  seemed  to  be  intensely  supplicat- 
ing. The  algebra-book  she  closed,  shrinking,  knowing  he 
was  angered;  and  at  the  same  instant  he  grew  gentle, 
seeing  her  hurt  because  she  did  not  understand. 

But  things  came  slowly  to  her.  And  when  she  held  her- 
self in  a  grip,  seemed  so  utterly  humble  before  the  lesson, 
it  made  his  blood  rouse.  He  stormed  at  her,  got  ashamed, 
continued  the  lesson,  and  grew  furious  again,  abusing  her. 
She  listened  in  silence.  Occasionally,  very  rarely,  she  de- 
fended herself.  Her  liquid  dark  eyes  blazed  at  him. 

"  You  don't  give  me  time  to  learn  it,"  she  said. 

"  All  right,"  he  answered,  throwing  the  book  on  the 
table  and  lighting  a  cigarette.  Then,  after  awhile,  he 
went  back  to  her  repentant.  So  the  lessons  went.  He 
was  always  either  in  a  rage  or  very  gentle. 

"What  do  you  tremble  your  soul  before  it  for?"  he 
cried.  "  You  don't  learn  algebra  with  your  blessed  soul. 
Can't  you  look  at  it  with  your  clear  simple  wits  ?  " 

Often,  when  he  went  again  into  the  kitchen,  Mrs.  Leivers 
would  look  at  him  reproachfully,  saying : 

"  Paul,  don't  be  so  hard  on  Miriam.  She  may  not  be 
quick,  but  I  'm  sure  she  tries." 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  he  said  rather  pitiably.  "  I  go  off 
like  it." 

"You  don't  mind  me,  Miriam,  do  you?"  he  asked  of 
the  girl  later. 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  195 

"  No,"  she  reassured  him  in  her  beautiful  deep  tones  — 
"  no,  I  don't  mind." 

"  Don't  mind  me ;    it 's  my  fault." 

But,  in  spite  of  himself,  his  blood  began  to  boil  with 
her.  It  was  strange  that  no  one  else  made  him  in  such 
fury.  He  flared  against  her.  Once  he  threw  the  pencil  in 
her  face.  There  was  a  silence.  She  turned  her  face 
slightly  aside. 

"  I  did  n't  —  "  he  began,  but  got  no  farther,  feeling 
weak  in  all  his  bones.  She  never  reproached  him  or  was 
angry  with  him.  He  was  often  cruelly  ashamed.  But 
still  again  his  anger  burst  like  a  bubble  surcharged;  and 
still,  when  he  saw  her  eager,  silent,  as  it  were,  blind  face, 
he  felt  he  wanted  to  throw  the  pencil  in  it;  and  still, 
when  he  saw  her  hand  trembling  and  her  mouth  parted 
with  suffering,  his  heart  was  scalded  with  pain  for  her. 
And  because  of  the  intensity  to  which  she  roused  him,  he 
sought  her. 

Then  he  often  avoided  her  and  went  with  Edgar. 
Miriam  and  her  brother  were  naturally  antagonistic. 
Edgar  was  a  rationalist,  who  was  curious,  and  had  a 
sort  of  scientific  interest  in  life.  It  was  a  great  bitterness 
to  Miriam  to  see  herself  deserted  by  Paul  for  Edgar,  who 
seemed  so  much  lower.  But  the  youth  was  very  happy 
with  her  elder  brother.  The  two  men  spent  afternoons 
together  on  the  land  or  in  the  loft  doing  carpentry,  when 
it  rained.  And  they  talked  together,  or  Paul  taught 
Edgar  the  songs  he  himself  had  learned  from  Annie  at  the 
piano.  And  often  all  the  men,  Mr.  Leivers  as  well,  had 
bitter  debates  on  the  nationalizing  of  the  land  and  similar 
problems.  Paul  had  already  heard  his  mother's  views,  and 
as  these  were  as  yet  his  own,  he  argued  for  her.  Miriam 
attended  and  took  part,  but  was  all  the  time  waiting 
until  it  should  be  over  and  a  personal  communication 
might  begin. 

"  After  all,"  she  said  within  herself,  "  if  the  land  were 
nationalized,  Edgar  and  Paul  and  I  would  be  just  the 
same."  So  she  waited  for  the  youth  to  come  back  to  her. 


196  Sons  and  Lovers 

He  was  studying  for  his  painting.  He  loved  to  sit  at 
home,  alone  with  his  mother,  at  night,  working  and  work- 
ing. She  sewed  or  read.  Then,  looking  up  from  his  task, 
he  would  rest  his  eyes  for  a  moment  on  her  face,  that  was 
bright  with  living  warmth,  and  he  returned  gladly  to  his 
work. 

"  I  can  do  my  best  things  when  you  sit  there  in  your 
rocking-chair,  mother,"  he  said. 

"  I  'm  sure !  "  she  exclaimed,  sniffing  with  mock  scepti- 
cism. But  she  felt  it  was  so,  and  her  heart  quivered  with 
brightness.  For  many  hours  she  sat  still,  slightly  con- 
scious of  him  labouring  away,  whilst  she  worked  or  read 
her  book.  And  he,  with  all  his  soul's  intensity  directing 
his  pencil,  could  feel  her  warmth  inside  him  like  strength. 
They  were  both  very  happy  so,  and  both  unconscious  of 
it.  These  times,  that  meant  so  much,  and  which  were  real 
living,  they  almost  ignored. 

He  was  conscious  only  when  stimulated.  A  sketch  fin- 
ished, he  always  wanted  to  take  it  to  Miriam.  Then  he 
was  stimulated  into  knowledge  of  the  work  he  had  pro- 
duced unconsciously.  In  contact  with  Miriam  he  gained 
insight ;  his  vision  went  deeper.  From  his  mother  he  drew 
the  life-warmth,  the  strength  to  produce;  Miriam  urged 
this  warmth  into  intensity  like  a  white  light. 

When  he  returned  to  the  factory  the  conditions  of  work 
were  better.  He  had  Wednesday  afternoon  off  to  go  to 
the  Art  School  —  Miss  Jordan's  provision  —  returning 
in  the  evening.  Then  the  factory  closed  at  six  instead  of 
at  eight  on  Thursday  and  Friday  evenings. 

One  evening  in  the  summer  Miriam  and  he  went  over 
the  fields  by  Herod's  Farm  on  their  way  from  the  library 
home.  So  it  was  only  three  miles  to  Willey  Farm.  There 
was  a  yellow  glow  over  the  mowing-grass,  and  the  sorrel- 
heads  burned  crimson.  Gradually,  as  they  walked  along 
the  high  land,  the  gold  in  the  west  sank  down  to  red,  the 
red  to  crimson,  and  then  the  chill  blue  crept  up  against 
the  glow. 

They  came  out  upon  the  high  road  to  Alfreton,  which 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  197 

ran  white  between  the  darkening  fields.  There  Paul  hesi- 
tated. It  was  two  miles  home  for  him,  one  mile  forward 
for  Miriam.  They  both  looked  up  the  road  that  ran  in 
shadow  right  under  the  glow  of  the  north-west  sky.  On 
the  crest  of  the  hill,  Selby,  with  its  stark  houses  and  the 
up-pricked  headstocks  of  the  pit,  stood  in  black  silhouette 
small  against  the  sky. 

He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Nine  o'clock !  "  he  said. 

The  pair  stood,  loth  to  part,  hugging  their  books. 

"  The  wood  is  so  lovely  now,"  she  said.  "  I  wanted  you 
to  see  it." 

He  followed  her  slowly  across  the  road  to  the  white 
gate. 

"  They  grumble  so  if  I  'm  late,"  he  said. 

"  But  you  're  not  doing  anything  wrong,"  she  answered 
impatiently. 

He  followed  her  across  the  nibbled  pasture  in  the  dusk. 
There  was  a  coolness  in  the  wood,  a  scent  of  leaves,  of 
honeysuckle,  and  a  twilight.  The  two  walked  in  silence. 
Night  came  wonderfully  there,  among  the  throng  of  dark 
tree-trunks.  He  looked  round,  expectant. 

She  wanted  to  show  him  a  certain  wild-rose  bush  she 
had  discovered.  She  knew  it  was  wonderful.  And  yet, 
till  he  had  seen  it,  she  felt  it  had  not  come  into  her  soul. 
Only  he  could  make  it  her  own,  immortal.  She  was  dis- 
satisfied. 

Dew  was  already  on  the  paths.  In  the  old  oak-wood 
a  mist  was  rising,  and  he  hesitated,  wondering  whether 
one  whiteness  were  a  strand  of  fog  or  only  campion- 
flowers  pallid  in  a  cloud. 

By  the  time  they  came  to  the  pine-trees  Miriam  was 
getting  very  eager  and  very  tense.  Her  bush  might  be 
gone.  She  might  not  be  able  to  find  it;  and  she  wanted 
it  so  much.  Almost  passionately  she  wanted  to  be  with 
him  when  he  stood  before  the  flowers.  They  were  going 
to  have  a  communion  together  —  something  that  thrilled 
her,  something  holy.  He  was  walking  beside  her  in  silence. 


198  Sons  and  Lovers 

They  were  very  near  to  each  other.  She  trembled,  and  he 
listened,  vaguely  anxious. 

Coming  to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  they  saw  the  sky  in 
front,  like  mother-of-pearl,  and  the  earth  growing  dark. 
Somewhere  on  the  outermost  branches  of  the  pine-wood 
the  honeysuckle  was  streaming  scent. 

"Where?"  he  asked. 

"  Down  the  middle  path,"  she  murmured,  quivering. 

When  they  turned  the  corner  of  the  path  she  stood  still. 
In  the  wide  walk  between  the  pines,  gazing  rather  fright- 
ened, she  could  distinguish  nothing  for  some  moments; 
the  greying  light  robbed  things  of  their  colour.  Then  she 
saw  her  bush. 

"  Ah !  "  she  cried,  hastening  forward. 

It  was  very  still.  The  tree  was  tall  and  straggling. 
It  had  thrown  its  briers  over  a  hawthorn-bush,  and  its 
long  streamers  trailed  thick,  right  down  to  the  grass, 
splashing  the  darkness  everywhere  with  great  spilt  stars, 
pure  white.  In  bosses  of  ivory  and  in  large  splashed  stars 
the  roses  gleamed  on  the  darkness  of  foliage  and  stems  and 
grass.  Paul  and  Miriam  stood  close  together,  silent,  and 
watched.  Point  after  point  the  steady  roses  shone  out 
to  them,  seeming  to  kindle  something  in  their  souls.  The 
dusk  came  like  smoke  around,  and  still  did  not  put  out  the 
roses. 

Paul  looked  into  Miriam's  eyes.  She  was  pale  and 
expectant  with  wonder,  her  lips  were  parted,  and  her  dark 
eyes  lay  open  to  him.  His  look  seemed  to  travel  down 
into  her.  Her  soul  quivered.  It  was  the  communion  she 
wanted.  He  turned  aside,  as  if  pained.  He  turned  to 
the  bush. 

"  They  seem  as  if  they  walk  like  butterflies,  and  shake 
themselves,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  her  roses.  They  were  white,  some  in- 
curved and  holy,  others  expanded  in  an  ecstasy.  The  tree 
was  dark  as  a  shadow.  She  lifted  her  hand  impulsively 
to  the  flowers;  she  went  forward  and  touched  them  in 
worship. 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  199 

"  Let  us  go,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  cool  scent  of  ivory  roses  —  a  white,  virgin 
scent.  Something  made  him  feel  anxious  and  imprisoned. 
The  two  walked  in  silence. 

"  Till  Sunday,"  he  said  quietly,  and  left  her ;  and  she 
walked  home  slowly,  feeling  her  soul  satisfied  with  the 
holiness  of  the  night.  He  stumbled  down  the  path.  And 
as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  the  wood,  in  the  free  open 
meadow,  where  he  could  breathe,  he  started  to  run  as 
fast  as  he  could.  It  was  like  a  delicious  delirium  in  his 
veins. 

Always  when  he  went  with  Miriam,  and  it  grew  rather 
late,  he  knew  his  mother  was  fretting  and  getting  angry 
about  him  —  why,  he  could  not  understand.  As  he  went 
into  the  house,  flinging  down  his  cap,  his  mother  looked 
up  at  the  clock.  She  had  been  sitting  thinking,  because 
a  chill  to  her  eyes  prevented  her  reading.  She  could  feel 
Paul  being  drawn  away  by  this  girl.  And  she  did  not 
care  for  Miriam.  "  She  is  one  of  those  who  will  want  to 
suck  a  man's  soul  out  till  he  has  none  of  his  own  left," 
she  said  to  herself;  "  and  he  is  just  such  a  gaby  as  to 
let  himself  be  absorbed.  She  will  never  let  him  become  a 
man ;  she  never  will."  So,  while  he  was  away  with  Miriam, 
Mrs.  Morel  grew  more  and  more  worked  up. 

She  glanced  at  the  clock  and  said,  coldly  and  rather 
tired : 

"  You  have  been  far  enough  to-night." 

His  soul,  warm  and  exposed  from  contact  with  the  girl, 
shrank. 

"  You  must  have  been  right  home  with  her,"  his  mother 
continued. 

He  would  not  answer.  Mrs.  Morel,  looking  at  him 
quickly,  saw  his  hair  was  damp  on  his  forehead  with  haste, 
saw  him  frowning  in  his  heavy  fashion,  resentfully. 

"  She  must  be  wonderfully  fascinating,  that  you  can't 
get  away  from  her,  but  must  go  trailing  eight  miles  at 
this  time  of  night." 

He  was  hurt  between  the  past  glamour  with  Miriam  and 


200  Sons  and  Lovers 

the  knowledge  that  his  mother  fretted.  He  had  meant  not 
to  say  anything,  to  refuse  to  answer.  But  he  could  not 
harden  his  heart  to  ignore  his  mother. 

"  I  do  like  to  talk  to  her,"  he  answered  irritably. 

"  Is  there  nobody  else  to  talk  to  ?  " 

"  You  would  n't  say  anything  if  I  went  with  Edgar." 

"  You  know  I  should.  You  know,  whoever  you  went 
with,  I  should  say  it  was  too  far  for  you  to  go  trailing, 
late  at  night,  when  you  've  been  to  Nottingham.  Besides  " 
—  her  voice  suddenly  flashed  into  anger  and  contempt  — 
"  it  is  disgusting  —  bits  of  lads  and  girls  courting." 

"  It  is  not  courting,"  he  cried. 

"  I  don't  know  what  else  you  call  it." 

"  It 's  not !  Do  you  think  we  spoon  and  do?  We  only 
talk." 

"  Till  goodness  knows  what  time  and  distance,"  was  the 
sarcastic  rejoinder. 

Paul  snapped  at  the  laces  of  his  boots  angrily. 

"  What  are  you  so  mad  about?  "  he  asked.  "  Because 
you  don't  like  her?  " 

"  I  don't  say  I  don't  like  her.  But  I  don't  hold  with 
children  keeping  company,  and  never  did." 

"  But  you  don't  mind  our  Annie  going  out  with  Jim 
Inger." 

"  They  've  more  sense  than  you  two." 

"Why?" 

"  Our  Annie  's  not  one  of  the  deep  sort." 

He  failed  to  see  the  meaning  of  this  remark.  But  his 
mother  looked  tired.  She  was  never  so  strong  after 
William's  death;  and  her  eyes  hurt  her. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  it  's  so  pretty  in  the  country.  Mr. 
Sleath  asked  about  you.  He  said  he  'd  missed  you.  Are 
you  a  bit  better?  " 

"  I  ought  to  have  been  in  bed  a  long  time  ago,"  she 
replied. 

"  Why,  mother,  you  know  you  would  n't  have  gone  be- 
fore quarter-past  ten." 

"Oh  yes,  I  should!" 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  201 

"  Oh,  little  woman,  you  'd  say  anything  now  you  're  dis- 
agreeable with  me,  would  n't  you  ?  " 

He  kissed  her  forehead  that  he  knew  so  well:  the  deep 
marks  between  the  brows,  the  rising  of  the  fine  hair,  grey- 
ing now,  and  the  proud  setting  of  the  temples.  His  hand 
lingered  on  her  shoulder  after  his  kiss.  Then  he  went 
slowly  to  bed.  He  had  forgotten  Miriam;  he  only  saw 
how  his  mother's  hair  was  lifted  back  from  her  warm, 
broad  brow.  And  somehow,  she  was  hurt. 

Then  the  next  time  he  saw  Miriam  he  said  to  her: 

"  Don't  let  me  be  late  to-night  —  not  later  than  ten 
o'clock.  My  mother  gets  so  upset." 

Miriam  dropped  her  head,  brooding. 

"  Why  does  she  get  upset?  "  she  asked. 

"  Because  she  says  I  ought  n't  to  be  out  late  when 
I  have  to  get  up  early." 

"  Very  well!  "  said  Miriam,  rather  quietly,  with  just  a 
touch  of  a  sneer. 

He  resented  that.     And  he  was  usually  late  again. 

That  there  was  any  love  growing  between  him  and 
Miriam  neither  of  them  would  have  acknowledged.  He 
thought  he  was  too  sane  for  such  sentimentality,  and  she 
thought  herself  too  lofty.  They  both  were  late  in  coming 
to  maturity,  and  psychical  ripeness  was  much  behind  even 
the  physical.  Miriam  was  exceedingly  sensitive,  as  her 
mother  had  always  been.  The  slightest  grossness  made 
her  recoil  almost  in  anguish.  Her  brothers  were  brutal, 
but  never  coarse  in  speech.  The  men  did  all  the  discussing 
of  farm  matters  outside.  But,  perhaps  because  of  the 
continual  business  of  birth  and  of  begetting  which  goes 
on  upon  every  farm,  Miriam  was  the  more  hypersensitive 
to  the  matter,  and  her  blood  was  chastened  almost  to  dis- 
gust of  the  faintest  suggestion  of  such  intercourse.  Paul 
took  his  pitch  from  her,  and  their  intimacy  went  on  in 
an  utterly  blanched  and  chaste  fashion.  It  could  never 
be  mentioned  that  the  mare  was  in  foal. 

When  he  was  nineteen,  he  was  earning  only  twenty 
shillings  a  week,  but  he  was  happy.  His  painting  went 


Sons  and  Lovers 

well,  and  life  went  well  enough.  On  the  Good  Friday  he 
organized  a  walk  to  the  Hemlock  Stone.  There  were 
three  lads  of  his  own  age,  then  Annie  and  Arthur,  Miriam 
and  Geoffrey.  Arthur,  apprenticed  as  an  electrician  in 
Nottingham,  was  home  for  the  holiday.  Morel,  as  usual, 
was  up  early,  whistling  and  sawing  in  the  yard.  At  seven 
o'clock  the  family  heard  him  buy  threepennyworth  of  hot- 
cross  buns;  he  talked  with  gusto  to  the  little  girl  who 
brought  them,  calling  her  "  my  darling."  He  turned 
away  several  boys  who  came  with  more  buns,  telling  them 
they  had  been  "  kested  "  by  a  little  lass.  Then  Mrs. 
Morel  got  up,  and  the  family  straggled  down.  It  was  an 
immense  luxury  to  everybody,  this  lying  in  bed  just  be- 
yond the  ordinary  time  on  a  weekday.  And  Paul  and 
Arthur  read  before  breakfast,  and  had  the  meal  unwashed, 
sitting  in  their  shirt-sleeves.  This  was  another  holiday 
luxury.  The  room  was  warm.  Everything  felt  free  of 
care  and  anxiety.  There  was  a  sense  of  plenty  in  the 
house. 

While  the  boys  were  reading,  Mrs.  Morel  went  into  the 
garden.  They  were  now  in  another  house,  an  old  one, 
near  the  Scargill  Street  home,  which  had  been  left  soon 
after  William  had  died.  Directly  came  an  excited  cry 
from  the  garden : 

"  Paul,  Paul !  come  and  look !  " 

It  was  his  mother's  voice.  He  threw  down  his  book  and 
went  out.  There  was  a  long  garden  that  ran  to  a  field. 
It  was  a  grey,  cold  day,  with  a  sharp  wind  blowing  out 
of  Derbyshire.  Two  fields  away  Bestwood  began,  with 
a  jumble  of  roofs  and  red  house-ends,  out  of  which  rose 
the  church  tower  and  the  spire  of  the  Congregational 
chapel.  And  beyond  went  woods  and  hills,  right  away  to 
the  pale  grey  heights  of  the  Pennine  Chain. 

Paul  looked  down  the  garden  for  his  mother.  Her  head 
appeared  among  the  young  currant  bushes. 

"  Come  here !  "  she  cried. 

"  What  for?  "  he  answered. 

"  Come  and  see." 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  203 

She  had  been  looking  at  the  buds  on  the  currant-trees. 
Paul  went  up. 

"  To  think,"  she  said,  "  that  here  I  might  never  have 
seen  them !  " 

Her  son  went  to  her  side.  Under  the  fence,  in  a  little 
bed,  was  a  ravel  of  poor  grassy  leaves,  such  as  come  from 
very  immature  bulbs,  and  three  scyllas  in  bloom.  Mrs. 
Morel  pointed  to  the  deep  blue  flowers. 

"  Now,  just  see  those!  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  was  look- 
ing at  the  currant-bushes,  when,  thinks  I  to  myself, 
6  There  's  something  very  blue;  is  it  a  bit  of  sugar-bag?  ' 
and  there,  behold  you !  Sugar-bag !  Three  glories  of  the 
snow,  and  such  beauties!  But  where  on  earth  did  they 
come  from?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Paul. 

"  Well,  that 's  a  marvel,  now !  I  thought  I  knew  every 
weed  and  blade  in  this  garden.  But  haven't  they  done 
well?  You  see,  that  gooseberry-bush  just  shelters  them. 
Not  nipped,  not  touched !  " 

He  crouched  down  and  turned  up  the  bells  of  the  little 
blue  flowers. 

"  They  're  a  glorious  colour !  "  he  said. 

"  Are  n't  they !  "  she  cried.  "  I  guess  they  come 
from  Switzerland,  where  they  say  they  have  such  lovely 
things.  Fancy  them  against  the  snow!  But  where 
have  they  come  from?  They  can't  have  blown  here,  can 
they?  " 

Then  he  remembered  having  set  here  a  lot  of  little  trash 
of  bulbs  to  mature. 

"  And  you  never  told  me,"  she  said. 

"  No ;   I  thought  I  'd  leave  it  till  they  might  flower." 

"  And  now,  you  see !  I  might  have  missed  them.  And 
I  've  never  had  a  glory  of  the  snow  in  my  garden  in  my 
life." 

She  was  full  of  excitement  and  elation.  The  garden  was 
an  endless  joy  to  her.  Paul  was  thankful  for  her  sake 
at  last  to  be  in  a  house  with  a  long  garden  that  went  down 
to  a  field.  Every  morning  after  breakfast  she  went  out 


204  Sons  and  Lovers 

and  was  happy  pottering  about  in  it.  And  it  was  true, 
she  knew  every  weed  and  blade. 

Everybody  turned  up  for  the  walk.  Food  was  packed, 
and  they  set  off,  a  merry,  delighted  party.  They  hung 
over  the  wall  of  the  mill-race,  dropped  paper  in  the  water 
on  one  side  the  tunnel  and  watched  it  shoot  out  on  the 
other.  They  stood  on  the  footbridge  over  Boathouse 
Station  and  looked  at  the  metals  gleaming  coldly. 

"  You  should  see  the  Flying  Scotchman  come  through 
at  half-past  six ! "  said  Leonard,  whose  father  was  a 
signal-man.  "  Lad,  but  she  does  n't  half  buzz !  "  and  the 
little  party  looked  up  the  lines  one  way,  to  London,  and 
the  other  way,  to  Scotland,  and  they  felt  the  touch  of 
these  two  magical  places. 

In  Ilkeston  the  colliers  were  waiting  in  gangs  for  the 
public-houses  to  open.  It  was  a  town  of  idleness  and 
lounging.  At  Stanton  Gate  the  iron  foundry  blazed. 
Over  everything  there  were  great  discussions.  At  Trowell 
they  crossed  again  from  Derbyshire  into  Nottinghamshire. 
They  came  to  the  Hemlock  Stone  at  dinner-time.  Its  field 
was  crowded  with  folk  from  Nottingham  and  Ilkeston. 

They  had  expected  a  venerable  and  dignified  monument. 
They  found  a  little,  gnarled,  twisted  stump  of  rock,  some- 
thing like  a  decayed  mushroom,  standing  out  pathetically 
on  the  side  of  a  field.  Leonard  and  Dick  immediately  pro- 
ceeded to  carve  their  initials,  "  L.  W."  and  "  R.  P.,"  in 
the  old  red  sandstone;  but  Paul  desisted,  because  he  had 
read  in  the  newspaper  satirical  remarks  about  initial- 
carvers,  who  could  find  no  other  road  to  immortality. 
Then  all  the  lads  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  rock  to  look 
round. 

Everywhere  in  the  field  below,  factory  girls  and  lads 
were  eating  lunch  or  sporting  about.  Beyond  was  the 
garden  of  an  old  manor.  It  had  yew-hedges  and  thick 
clumps  and  borders  of  yellow  crocuses  round  the  lawn. 

"  See,"  said  Paul  to  Miriam,  "  what  a  quiet  garden !  " 

She  saw  the  dark  yews  and  the  golden  crocuses,  then  she 
looked  at  him  gratefully.  He  had  not  seemed  to  belong  to 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  205 

her  among  all  these  others ;  he  was  different  then  —  not 
her  Paul,  who  understood  the  slightest  quiver  of  her 
innermost  soul,  but  something  else,  speaking  another 
language  than  hers.  How  it  hurt  her,  and  deadened  her 
very  perceptions.  Only  when  he  came  right  back  to  her, 
leaving  his  other,  his  lesser  self,  as  she  thought,  would  she 
feel  alive  again.  And  now  he  asked  her  to  look  at  this 
garden,  wanting  the  contact  with  her  again.  Impatient 
of  the  set  in  the  field,  she  turned  to  the  quiet  lawn,  sur- 
rounded by  sheaves  of  shut-up  crocuses.  A  feeling  of 
stillness,  almost  of  ecstasy,  came  over  her.  It  felt  almost 
as  if  she  were  alone  with  him  in  this  garden. 

Then  he  left  her  again  and  joined  the  others.  Soon 
they  started  home.  Miriam  loitered  behind,  alone.  She 
did  not  fit  in  with  the  others ;  she  could  very  rarely  get 
into  human  relations  with  anyone :  so  her  friend,  her  com- 
panion, her  lover,  was  Nature.  She  saw  the  sun  declining 
wanly.  In  the  dusky,  cold  hedgerows  were  some  red 
leaves.  She  lingered  to  gather  them,  tenderly,  passion- 
ately. The  love  in  her  finger-tips  caressed  the  leaves ; 
the  passion  in  her  heart  came  to  a  glow  upon  the  leaves. 

Suddenly  she  realized  she  was  alone  in  a  strange  road, 
and  she  hurried  forward.  Turning  a  corner  in  the  lane, 
she  came  upon  Paul,  who  stood  bent  over  something,  his 
mind  fixed  on  it,  working  away  steadily,  patiently,  a  little 
hopelessly.  She  hesitated  in  her  approach,  to  watch. 

He  remained  concentrated  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
Beyond,  one  rift  of  rich  gold  in  that  colourless  grey  even- 
ing seemed  to  make  him  stand  out  in  dark  relief.  She 
saw  him,  slender  and  firm,  as  if  the  setting  sun  had  given 
him  to  her.  A  deep  pain  took  hold  of  her,  and  she  knew 
she  must  love  him.  And  she  had  discovered  him,  discov- 
ered in  him  a  rare  potentiality,  discovered  his  loneliness. 
Quivering  as  at  some  "  annunciation,"  she  went  slowly 
forward. 

At  last  he  looked  up. 

"  Why,"  he  exclaimed  gratefully,  "  have  you  waited  for 


206  Sons  and  Lovers 

She  saw  a  deep  shadow  in  his  eyes. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked, 

"  The  spring  broken  here  " ;  and  he  showed  her  where 
his  umbrella  was  injured. 

Instantly,  with  some  shame,  she  knew  he  had  not  done 
the  damage  himself,  but  that  Geoffrey  was  responsible. 

"  It  is  only  an  old  umbrella,  is  n't  it?  "  she  asked. 

She  wondered  why  he,  who  did  not  usually  trouble  over 
trifles,  made  such  a  mountain  of  this  molehill. 

"  But  it  was  William's,  an'  my  mother  can't  help  but 
know,"  he  said  quietly,  still  patiently  working  at  the 
umbrella. 

The  words  went  through  Miriam  like  a  blade.  This, 
then,  was  the  confirmation  of  her  vision  of  him !  She 
looked  at  him.  But  there  was  about  him  a  certain  re- 
serve, and  she  dared  not  comfort  him,  not  even  speak 
softly  to  him. 

"  Come  on,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  do  it  " ;  and  they  went 
in  silence  along  the  road. 

That  same  evening  they  were  walking  along  under  the 
trees  by  Nether  Green.  He  was  talking  to  her  fretfully, 
seemed  to  be  struggling  to  convince  himself. 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  with  an  effort,  "  if  one  person 
loves,  the  other  does." 

"  Ah !  "  she  answered.  "  Like  mother  said  to  me  when 
I  was  little,  '  Love  begets  love.' ' 

66  Yes,  something  like  that,  I  think  it  must  be." 

"  I  hope  so,  because,  if  it  were  not,  love  might  be  a 
very  terrible  thing,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  —  at  least  with  most  people,"  he 
answered. 

And  Miriam,  thinking  he  had  assured  himself,  felt 
strong  in  herself.  She  always  regarded  that  sudden 
coming  upon  him  in  the  lane  as  a  revelation.  And  this 
conversation  remained  graven  in  her  mind  as  one  of  the 
letters  of  the  law. 

Now  she  stood  with  him  and  for  him.  When,  about 
this  time,  he  outraged  the  family  feeling  at  Willey  Farm 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  207 

by  some  overbearing  insult,  she  stuck  to  him,  and  be- 
lieved he  was  right.  And  at  this  time  she  dreamed  dreams 
of  him,  vivid,  unforgettable.  These  dreams  came  again 
later  on,  developed  to  a  more  subtle  psychological  stage. 

On  the  Easter  Monday  the  same  party  took  an  excur- 
sion to  Wingfield  Manor.  It  was  great  excitement  to 
Miriam  to  catch  a  train  at  Sethley  Bridge,  amid  all  the 
bustle  of  the  Bank  Holiday  crowd.  They  left  the  train 
at  Alfreton.  Paul  was  interested  in  the  street  and  in  the 
colliers  with  their  dogs.  Here  was  a  new  race  of  miners. 
Miriam  did  not  live  till  they  came  to  the  church.  They 
were  all  rather  timid  of  entering,  with  their  bags  of  food, 
for  fear  of  being  turned  out.  Leonard,  a  comic,  thin 
fellow,  went  first ;  Paul,  who  would  have  died  rather  than 
be  sent  back,  went  last.  The  place  was  decorated  for 
Easter.  In  the  font  hundreds  of  white  narcissi  seemed 
to  be  growing.  The  air  was  dim  and  coloured  from  the 
windows,  and  thrilled  with  a  subtle  scent  of  lilies  and  nar- 
cissi. In  that  atmosphere  Miriam's  soul  came  into  a  glow. 
Paul  was  afraid  of  the  things  he  must  n't  do ;  and  he  was 
sensitive  to  the  feel  of  the  place.  Miriam  turned  to  him. 
He  answered.  They  were  together.  He  would  not  go 
beyond  the  Communion-rail.  She  loved  him  for  that. 
Her  soul  expanded  into  prayer  beside  him.  He  felt  the 
strange  fascination  of  shadowy  religious  places.  All  his 
latent  mysticism  quivered  into  life.  She  was  drawn  to  him. 
He  was  a  prayer  along  with  her. 

Miriam  very  rarely  talked  to  the  other  lads.  They  at 
once  became  awkward  in  conversation  with  her.  So 
usually  she  was  silent. 

It  was  past  midday  when  they  climbed  the  steep  path 
to  the  manor.  All  things  shone  softly  in  the  sun,  which 
was  wonderfully  warm  and  enlivening.  Celandines  and 
violets  were  out.  Everybody  was  tip-top  full  with  happi- 
ness. The  glitter  of  the  ivy,  the  soft,  atmospheric  grey 
of  the  Castle  walls,  the  gentleness  of  everything  near  the 
ruin,  was  perfect. 

The  manor  is  of  hard,  pale  grey  stone,  and  the  outer 


208  Sons  and  Lovers 

walls  are  blank  and  calm.  The  young  folk  were  in  rap- 
tures. They  went  in  trepidation,  almost  afraid  that  the 
delight  of  exploring  this  ruin  might  be  denied  them.  In 
the  first  courtyard,  within  the  high  broken  walls,  were 
farm-carts,  with  their  shafts  lying  idle  on  the  ground,  the 
tyres  of  the  wheels  brilliant  with  gold-red  rust.  It  was 
very  still. 

All  eagerly  paid  their  sixpences,  and  went  timidly 
through  the  fine  clean  arch  of  the  inner  courtyard.  They 
were  shy.  Here  on  the  pavement,  where  the  hall  had 
been,  an  old  thorn-tree  was  budding.  All  kinds  of  strange 
openings  and  broken  rooms  were  in  the  shadow  around 
them. 

After  lunch  they  set  off  once  more  to  explore  the  ruin. 
This  time  the  girls  went  with  the  boys,  who  could  act  as 
guides  and  expositors.  There  was  one  tall  tower  in  a 
corner,  rather  tottering,  where  they  say  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots  was  imprisoned. 

"  Think  of  the  Queen  going  up  here !  "  said  Miriam  in 
a  low  voice,  as  she  climbed  the' hollow  stairs. 

"  If  she  could  get  up,"  said  Paul,  "  for  she  had  rheu- 
matism like  anything.  I  reckon  they  treated  her 
rottenly." 

"You  don't  think  she  deserved  it?"  asked  Miriam. 

"  No,  I  don't.     She  was  only  lively." 

They  continued  to  mount  the  winding  staircase.  A 
high  wind,  blowing  through  the  loopholes,  went  rushing 
up  the  shaft,  and  filled  the  girl's  skirts  like  a  balloon,  so 
that  she  was  ashamed,  until  he  took  the  hem  of  her  dress 
and  held  it  down  for  her.  He  did  it  perfectly  simply, 
as  he  would  have  picked  up  her  glove.  She  remembered 
this  always. 

Round  the  broken  top  of  the  tower  the  ivy  bushed  out, 
old  and  handsome.  Also,  there  were  a  few  chill  gillivers, 
in  pale  cold  bud.  Miriam  wanted  to  lean  over  for  some 
ivy,  but  he  would  not  let  her.  Instead,  she  had  to  wait 
behind  him,  and  take  from  him  each  spray  as  he  gathered 
it  and  held  it  to  her,  each  one  separately,  in  the  purest 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  209 

manner  of  chivalry.  The  tower  seemed  to  rock  in  the 
wind.  They  looked  over  miles  and  miles  of  wooded  coun- 
try, and  country  with  gleams  of  pasture. 

The  crypt  underneath  the  manor  was  beautiful,  and 
in  perfect  preservation.  Paul  made  a  drawing:  Miriam 
stayed  with  him.  She  was  thinking  of  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots  looking  with  her  strained,  hopeless  eyes,  that  could 
not  understand  misery,  over  the  hills  whence  no  help  came, 
or  sitting  in  this  crypt,  being  told  of  a  God  as  cold  as 
the  place  she  sat  in. 

They  set  off  again  gaily,  looking  round  on  their  be- 
loved manor  that  stood  so  clean  and  big  on  its 
hill. 

"  Supposing  you  could  have  that  farm,"  said  Paul  to 
Miriam. 
"  Yes !  " 

"  Would  n't  it  be  .lovely  to  come  and  see  you !  " 
They  were  now  in  the  bare  country  of  stone  walls, 
which  he  loved,  and  which,  though  only  ten  miles  from 
home,  seemed  so  foreign  to  Miriam.  The  party  was 
straggling.  As  they  were  crossing  a  large  meadow  that 
sloped  away  from  the  sun,  along  a  path  embedded  with 
innumerable  tiny  glittering  points,  Paul,  walking  along- 
side, laced  his  fingers  in  the  strings  of  the  bag  Miriam 
was  carrying,  and  instantly  she  felt  Annie  behind,  watch- 
ful and  jealous.  But  the  meadow  was  bathed  in  a  glory 
of  sunshine,  and  the  path  was  jewelled,  and  it  was  seldom 
that  he  gave  her  any  sign.  She  held  her  fingers  very  still 
among  the  strings  of  the  bag,  his  fingers  touching;  and 
the  place  was  golden  as  a  vision. 

At  last  they  came  into  the  straggling  grey  village  of 
Crich,  that  lies  high.  Beyond  the  village  was  the  famous 
Crich  Stand  that  Paul  could  see  from  the  garden  at 
home.  The  party  pushed  on.  Great  expanse  of  country 
spread  around  and  below.  The  lads  were  eager  to  get 
to  the  top  of  the  hill.  It  was  capped  by  a  round  knoll, 
half  of  which  was  by  now  cut  away,  and  on  the  top  of 
which  stood  an  ancient  monument,  sturdy  and  squat,  for 


210  Sons  and  Lovers 

signalling  in  old  days  far  down  into  the  level  lands  of 
Nottinghamshire  and  Leicestershire. 

It  was  blowing  so  hard,  high  up  there  in  the  exposed 
place,  that  the  only  way  to  be  safe  was  to  stand  nailed 
by  the  wind  to  the  wall  of  the  tower.  At  their  feet  fell 
the  precipice  where  the  limestone  was  quarried  away. 
Below  was  a  jumble  of  hills  and  tiny  villages  —  Matlock, 
Ambergate,  Stoney  Middleton.  The  lads  were  eager  to 
spy  out  the  church  of  Bestwood,  far  away  among  the 
rather  crowded  country  on  the  left.  They  were  disgusted 
that  it  seemed  to  stand  on  a  plain.  They  saw  the  hills 
of  Derbyshire  fall  into  the  monotony  of  the  Midlands  that 
swept  away  South. 

Miriam  was  somewhat  scared  by  the  wind,  but  the  lads 
enjoyed  it.  They  went  on,  miles  and  miles,  to  Whatstand- 
well.  All  the  food  was  eaten,  everybody  was  hungry, 
and  there  was  very  little  money  to  get  home  with.  But 
they  managed  to  procure  a  loaf  and  a  currant-loaf,  which 
they  hacked  into  pieces  with  shut-knives,  and  ate  sitting 
on  the  wall  near  the  bridge,  watching  the  bright  Derwent 
rushing  by,  and  the  brakes  from  Matlock  pulling  up  at 
the  inn. 

Paul  was  now  pale  with  weariness.  He  had  been  re- 
sponsible for  the  party  all  day,  and  now  he  was  done. 
Miriam  understood,  and  kept  close  to  him,  and  he  left 
himself  in  her  hands. 

They  had  an  hour  to  wait  at  Ambergate  Station. 
Trains  came,  crowded  with  excursionists  returning  to 
Manchester,  Birmingham,  and  London. 

M  We  might  be  going  there  —  folk  easily  might  think 
we  're  going  that  far,"  said  Paul. 

They  got  back  rather  late.  Miriam,  walking  home  with 
Geoffrey,  watched  the  moon  rise  big  and  red  and  misty. 
She  felt  something  was  fulfilled  in  her. 

She  had  an  elder  sister,  Agatha,  who  was  a  school- 
teacher. Between  the  two  girls  was  a  feud.  Miriam  con- 
sidered Agatha  worldly.  And  she  wanted  herself  to  be 
a  school-teacher. 


Lad-and-Girl  Love 

One  Saturday  afternoon  Agatha  and  Miriam  were  up- 
stairs dressing.  Their  bedroom  was  over  the  stable.  It 
was  a  low  room,  not  very  large,  and  bare.  Miriam  had 
nailed  on  the  wall  a  reproduction  of  Veronese's  "  St. 
Catherine."  She  loved  the  woman  who  sat  in  the  window, 
dreaming.  Her  own  windows  were  too  small  to  sit  in. 
But  the  front  one  was  dripped  over  with  honeysuckle  and 
Virginia  creeper,  and  looked  upon  the  tree-tops  of  the 
oak-wood  across  the  yard,  while  the  little  back  window, 
no  bigger  than  a  handkerchief,  was  a  loophole  to  the  east, 
to  the  dawn  beating  up  against  the  beloved  round 
hills. 

The  two  sisters  did  not  talk  much  to  each  other. 
Agatha,  who  was  fair  and  small  and  determined,  had  re- 
belled against  the  home  atmosphere,  against  the  doctrine 
of  "  the  other  cheek."  She  was  out  in  the  world  now,  in 
a  fair  way  to  be  independent.  And  she  insisted  on  worldly 
values,  on  appearance,  on  manners,  on  position,  which 
Miriam  would  fain  have  ignored. 

Both  girls  liked  to  be  upstairs,  out  of  the  way,  when 
Paul  came.  They  preferred  to  come  running  down,  open 
the  stairfoot  door,  and  see  him  watching,  expectant  of 
them.  Miriam  stood  painfully  pulling  over  her  head  a 
rosary  he  had  given  her.  It  caught  in  the  fine  mesh  of 
her  hair.  But  at  last  she  had  it  on,  and  the  red-brown 
wooden  beads  looked  well  against  her  cool  brown  neck. 
She  was  a  well-developed  girl,  and  very  handsome.  But 
in  the  little  looking-glass  nailed  against  the  whitewashed 
wall  she  could  only  see  a  fragment  of  herself  at  a  time. 
Agatha  had  bought  a  little  mirror  of  her  own,  which 
she  propped  up  to  suit  herself.  Miriam  was  near  the 
window.  Suddenly  she  heard  the  well-known  click  of  the 
chain,  and  she  saw  Paul  fling  open  the  gate,  push  his 
bicycle  into  the  yard.  She  saw  him  look  at  the  house, 
and  she  shrank  away.  He  walked  in  a  nonchalant  fashion, 
and  his  bicycle  went  with  him  as  if  it  were  a  live  thing. 

"  Paul 's  come !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Are  n't  you  glad?  "  said  Agatha  cuttingly. 


Sons  and  Lovers 

Miriam  stood  still  in  amazement  and  bewilderment. 

"Well,  aren't  you?"  she  asked. 

'*  Yes,  but  I  'm  not  going  to  let  him  see  it,  and  think 
I  wanted  him." 

Miriam  was  startled.  She  heard  him  putting  his  bicycle 
in  the  stable  underneath,  and  talking  to  Jimmy,  who  had 
been  a  pit-horse,  and  who  was  seedy. 

"  Well,  Jimmy  my  lad,  how  are  ter  ?  Nobbut  sick  an' 
sadly,  like?  Why,  then,  it  's  a  shame,  my  owd  lad." 

She  heard  the  rope  run  through  the  hole  as  the  horse 
lifted  its  head  from  the  lad's  caress.  How  she  loved  to 
listen  when  he  thought  only  the  horse  could  hear.  But 
there  was  a  serpent  in  her  Eden.  She  searched  earnestly 
in  herself  to  see  if  she  wanted  Paul  Morel.  She  felt  there 
would  be  some  disgrace  in  it.  Full  of  twisted  feeling,  she 
was  afraid  she  did  want  him.  She  stood  self-convicted. 
Then  came  an  agony  of  new  shame.  She  shrank  within 
herself  in  a  coil  of  torture.  Did  she  want  Paul  Morel, 
and  did  he  know  she  wanted  him?  What  a  subtle  infamy 
upon  her !  She  felt  as  if  her  whole  soul  coiled  into  knots 
of  shame. 

Agatha  was  dressed  first,  and  ran  downstairs.  Miriam 
heard  her  greet  the  lad  gaily,  knew  exactly  how  brilliant 
her  grey  eyes  became  with  that  tone.  She  herself  would 
have  felt  it  bold  to  have  greeted  him  in  such  wise.  Yet 
there  she  stood  under  the  self-accusation  of  wanting  him, 
tied  to  that  stake  of  torture.  In  bitter  perplexity  she 
kneeled  down  and  prayed: 

"  O  Lord,  let  me  not  love  Paul  Morel.  Keep  me  from 
loving  him,  if  I  ought  not  to  love  him." 

Something  anomalous  in  the  prayer  arrested  her.  She 
lifted  her  head  and  pondered.  How  could  it  be  wrong  to 
love  him?  Love  was  God's  gift.  And  yet  it  caused  her 
shame.  That  was  because  of  him,  Paul  Morel.  But,  then, 
it  was  not  his  affair,  it  was  her  own,  between  herself  and 
God.  She  was  to  be  a  sacrifice.  But  it  was  God's  sacrifice, 
not  Paul  Morel's  or  her  own.  After  a  few  minutes  she 
hid  her  face  in  the  pillow  again,  and  said: 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  213 

"  But,  Lord,  if  it  is  Thy  will  that  I  should  love  him, 
make  me  love  him  —  as  Christ  would,  who  died  for  the 
souls  of  men.  Make  me  love  him  splendidly,  because  he 
is  Thy  son." 

She  remained  kneeling  for  some  time,  quite  still,  and 
deeply  moved,  her  black  hair  against  the  red  squares  and 
the  lavender-sprigged  squares  of  the  patchwork-quilt. 
Prayer  was  almost  essential  to  her.  Then  she  fell  into 
that  rapture  of  self-sacrifice,  identifying  herself  with  a 
God  who  was  sacrificed,  which  gives  to  so  many  human 
souls  their  deepest  bliss. 

When  she  went  downstairs  Paul  was  lying  back  in  an 
arm-chair,  holding  forth  with  much  vehemence  to  Agatha, 
who  was  scorning  a  little  painting  he  had  brought  to  show 
her.  Miriam  glanced  at  the  two,  and  avoided  their  levity. 
She  went  into  the  parlour  to  be  alone. 

It  was  teatime  before  she  was  able  to  speak  to  Paul, 
and  then  her  manner  was  so  distant  he  thought  he  had 
offended  her. 

Miriam  discontinued  her  practice  of  going  each  Thurs- 
day evening  to  the  library  in  Bestwood.  After  calling 
for  Paul  regularly  during  the  whole  spring,  a  number  of 
trifling  incidents  and  tiny  insults  from  his  family  awak- 
ened her  to  their  attitude  towards  her,  and  she  decided 
to  go  no  more.  So  she  announced  to  Paul  one  evening 
she  would  not  call  at  his  house  again  for  him  on  Thursday 
nights. 

"  Why?  "  he  asked,  very  short. 

"  Nothing.     Only  I  'd  rather  not." 

"  Very  well." 

"  But,"  she  faltered,  "  if  you  'd  care  to  meet  me,  we 
could  still  go  together." 

"  Meet  you  where?  " 

"  Somewhere  —  where  you  like." 

"  I  shan't  meet  you  anywhere.  I  don't  see  why  you 
should  n't  keep  calling  for  me.  But  if  you  won't,  I  don't 
want  to  meet  you." 

So  the  Thursday  evenings  which  had  been  so  precious 


214  Sons  and  Lovers 

to  her,  and  to  him,  were  dropped.  He  worked  instead. 
Mrs.  Morel  sniffed  with  satisfaction  at  this  arrangement. 

He  would  not  have  it  that  they  were  lovers.  The  inti- 
macy between  them  had  been  kept  so  abstract,  such  a 
matter  of  the  soul,  all  thought  and  weary  struggle  into 
consciousness,  that  he  saw  it  only  as  a  platonic  friend- 
ship. He  stoutly  denied  there  was  anything  else  between 
them.  Miriam  was  silent,  or  else  she  very  quietly  agreed. 
He  was  a  fool  who  did  not  know  what  was  happening  to 
himself.  By  tacit  agreement  they  ignored  the  remarks 
and  insinuations  of  their  acquaintances. 

"  We  are  n't  lovers,  we  are  friends,"  he  said  to  her. 
"  We  know  it.  Let  them  talk.  What  does  it  matter  what 
they  say?" 

Sometimes,  as  they  were  walking  together,  she  slipped 
her  arm  timidly  into  his.  But  he  always  resented  it,  and 
she  knew  it.  It  caused  a  violent  conflict  in  him.  With 
Miriam  he  was  always  on  the  high  plane  of  abstrac- 
tion, when  his  natural  fire  of  love  was  transmitted 
into  the  fine  stream  of  thought.  She  would  have  it  so. 
If  he  were  jolly  and,  as  she  put  it,  flippant,  she  waited 
till  he  came  back  to  her,  till  the  change  had  taken  place 
in  him  again,  and  he  was  wrestling  with  his  own  soul, 
frowning,  passionate  in  his  desire  for  understanding.  And 
in  this  passion  for  understanding  her  soul  lay  close  to  his ; 
she  had  him  all  to  herself.  But  he  must  be  made  abstract 
first. 

Then,  if  she  put  her  arm  in  his,  it  caused  him  almost 
torture.  His  consciousness  seemed  to  split.  The  place 
where  she  was  touching  him  ran  hot  with  friction.  He 
was  one  internecine  battle,  and  he  became  cruel  to  her  be- 
cause of  it. 

One  evening  in  midsummer  Miriam  called  at  the  house, 
warm  from  climbing.  Paul  was  alone  in  the  kitchen;  his 
mother  could  be  heard  moving  about  upstairs. 

"  Come  and  look  at  the  sweet-peas,"  he  said  to  the  girl. 

They  went  into  the  garden.  The  sky  behind  the  town- 
let  and  the  church  was  orange-red ;  the  flower-garden  was 


Lad-and-Girl  Love, 

flooded  with  a  strange  warm  light  that  lifted  every  leaf 
into  significance.  Paul  passed  along  a  fine  row  of  sweet- 
peas,  gathering  a  blossom  here  and  there,  all  cream  and 
pale  blue.  Miriam  followed,  breathing  the  fragrance. 
To  her,  flowers  appealed  with  such  strength  she  felt  she 
must  make  them  part  of  herself.  When  she  bent  and 
breathed  a  flower,  it  was  as  if  she  and  the  flower  were 
loving  each  other.  Paul  hated  her  for  it.  There  seemed 
a  sort  of  exposure  about  the  action,  something  too 
intimate. 

When  he  had  got  a  fair  bunch,  they  returned  to  the 
house.  He  listened  for  a  moment  to  his  mother's  quiet 
movement  upstairs,  then  he  said: 

"  Come  here,  and  let  me  pin  them  in  for  you."  He 
arranged  them  two  or  three  at  a  time  in  the  bosom  of 
her  dress,  stepping  back  now  and  then  to  see  the  effect. 
"  You  know,"  he  said,  taking  the  pin  out  of  his  mouth, 
66  a  woman  ought  always  to  arrange  her  flowers  before  her 
glass." 

Miriam  laughed.  She  thought  flowers  ought  to  be 
pinned  in  one's  dress  without  any  care.  That  Paul  should 
take  pains  to  fix  her  flowers  for  her  was  his  whim. 

He  was  rather  offended  at  her  laughter. 

"  Some  women  do  —  those  who  look  decent,"  he  said. 

Miriam  laughed  again,  but  mirthlessly,  to  hear  him  thus 
mix  her  up  with  women  in  a  general  way.  From  most  men 
she  would  have  ignored  it.  But  from  him  it  hurt  her. 

He  had  nearly  finished  arranging  the  flowers  when  he 
heard  his  mother's  footstep  on  the  stairs.  Hurriedly  he 
pushed  in  the  last  pin  and  turned  away. 

"  Don't  let  mater  know,"  he  said. 

Miriam  picked  up  her  books  and  stood  in  the  doorway 
looking  with  chagrin  at  the  beautiful  sunset.  She  would 
call  for  Paul  no  more,  she  said. 

"  Good-evening,  Mrs.  Morel,"  she  said,  in  a  deferential 
way.  She  sounded  as  if  she  felt  she  had  no  right  to  be 
there. 

"  Oh,  is  it  you,  Miriam?  "  replied  Mrs.  Morel  coolly. 


216  Sons  and  Lovers 

But  Paul  insisted  on  everybody's  accepting  his  friend- 
ship with  the  girl,  and  Mrs.  Morel  was  too  wise  to  have 
any  open  rupture. 

It  was  not  till  he  was  twenty  years  old  that  the  family 
could  ever  afford  to  go  away  for  a  holiday.  Mrs.  Morel 
had  never  been  away  for  a  holiday,  except  to  see  her 
sister,  since  she  had  been  married.  Now  at  last  Paul  had 
saved  enough  money,  and  they  were  all  going.  There  was 
to  be  a  party:  some  of  Annie's  friends,  one  friend  of 
Paul's,  a  young  man  in  the  same  office  where  William 
had  previously  been,  and  Miriam. 

It  was  great  excitement  writing  for  rooms.  Paul  and 
his  mother  debated  it  endlessly  between  them.  They 
wanted  a  furnished  cottage  for  two  weeks.  She  thought 
one  week  would  be  enough,  but  he  insisted  on  two. 

At  last  they  got  an  answer  from  Mablethorpe,  a  cot- 
tage such  as  they  wished  for  thirty  shillings  a  week. 
There  was  immense  jubilation.  Paul  was  wild  with  joy 
for  his  mother's  sake.  She  would  have  a  real  holiday 
now.  He  and  she  sat  at  evening  picturing  what  it  would 
be  like.  Annie  came  in,  and  Leonard,  and  Alice,  and 
Kitty.  There  was  wild  rejoicing  and  anticipation.  Paul 
told  Miriam.  She  seemed  to  brood  with  joy  over  it.  But 
the  Morels'  house  rang  with  excitement. 

They  were  to  go  on  Saturday  morning  by  the  seven 
train.  Paul  suggested  that  Miriam  should  sleep  at  his 
house,  because  it  was  so  far  for  her  to  walk.  She  came 
down  for  supper.  Everybody  was  so  excited  that  even 
Miriam  was  accepted  with  warmth.  But  almost  as  soon 
as  she  entered  the  feeling  in  the  family  became  close  and 
tight.  He  had  discovered  a  poem  by  Jean  Ingelow  which 
mentioned  Mablethorpe,  and  so  he  must  read  it  to  Miriam. 
He  would  never  have  got  so  far  in  the  direction  of  senti- 
mentality as  to  read  poetry  to  his  own  family.  But  now 
they  condescended  to  listen.  Miriam  sat  on  the  sofa 
absorbed  in  him.  She  always  seemed  absorbed  in  him,  and 
by  him,  when  he  was  present.  Mrs.  Morel  sat  jealously 
in  her  own  chair.  She  was  going  to  hear  also.  And 


Lad-and-Girl  Love 

even  Annie  and  the  father  attended,  Morel  with  his  head 
cocked  on  one  side,  like  somebody  listening  to  a  sermon 
and  feeling  conscious  of  the  fact.  Paul  ducked  his  head 
over  the  book.  He  had  got  now  all  the  audience  he  cared 
for.  And  Mrs.  Morel  and  Annie  almost  contested  with 
Miriam  who  should  listen  best  and  win  his  favour.  He 
was  in  very  high  feather. 

"  But,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Morel,  "  what  is  the  '  Bride 
of  Enderby  '  that  the  bells  are  supposed  to  ring?  " 

"  It 's  an  old  tune  they  used  to  play  on  the  bells  for 
a  warning  against  water.  I  suppose  the  Bride  of  Enderby 
was  drowned  in  a  flood,"  he  replied.  He  had  not  the 
faintest  knowledge  what  it  really  was,  but  he  would  have 
never  sunk  so  low  as  to  confess  that  to  his  womenfolk. 
They  listened  and  believed  him.  He  believed  himself. 

"And  the  people  knew  what  that  tune  meant?"  said 
his  mother. 

"Yes  — just  like  the  Scotch  when  they  heard  "The 
Flowers  o'  the  Forest '  —  and  when  they  used  to  ring 
the  bells  backward  for  alarm." 

"  How?  "  said  Annie.  "  A  bell  sounds  the  same  whether 
it 's  rung  backwards  or  forwards." 

66  But,"  he  said,  "  if  you  start  with  the  deep  bell  and 
ring  up  to  the  high  one  —  der  —  der  —  der  —  der  —  der 
—  der  —  der  —  der !  " 

He  ran  up  the  scale.  Everybody  thought  it  clever.  He 
thought  so  too.  Then,  waiting  a  minute,  he  continued  the 
poem. 

"  H'm !  "  said  Mrs.  Morel  curiously,  when  he  finished. 
"  But  I  wish  everything  that 's  written  were  n't  so 
sad." 

"  /  canna  see  what  they  want  drownin'  theirselves  for," 
said  Morel. 

There  was  a  pause.     Annie  got  up  to  clear  the  table. 

Miriam  rose  to  help  with  the  pots. 

"  Let  me  help  to  wash  up,"  she  said. 

"  Certainly  not,"  cried  Annie.  "  You  sit  down  again. 
There  are  n't  many." 


218  Sons  and  Lovers 

And  Miriam,  who  could  not  be  familiar  and  insist,  sat 
down  again  to  look  at  the  book  with  Paul. 

He  was  master  of  the  party;  his  father  was  no  good. 
And  great  tortures  he  suffered  lest  the  tin  box  should  be 
put  out  at  Firsby  instead  of  at  Mablethorpe.  And  he 
was  n't  equal  to  getting  a  carriage.  His  bold  little  mother 
did  that. 

"  Here !  "  she  cried  to  a  man.    "  Here !  " 

Paul  and  Annie  got  behind  the  rest,  convulsed  with 
shamed  laughter. 

"  How  much  will  it  be  to  drive  to  Brook  Cottage?  "  said 
Mrs.  Morel. 

"  Two  shillings." 

"  Why,  how  far  is  it?" 

"  A  good  way." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said. 

But  she  scrambled  in.  There  were  eight  crowded  in 
one  old  seaside  carriage. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "  it 's  only  threepence 
each,  and  if  it  were  a  tram-car  —  " 

They  drove  along.  Each  cottage  they  came  to,  Mrs. 
Morel  cried: 

"  Is  it  this?    Now,  this  is  it!  " 

Everybody  sat  breathless.  They  drove  past.  There 
was  a  universal  sigh. 

"  I  'm  thankful  it  was  n't  that  brute,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 
"  I  was  frightened."  They  drove  on  and  on. 

At  last  they  descended  at  a  house  that  stood  alone  over 
the  dyke  by  the  highroad.  There  was  wild  excitement 
because  they  had  to  cross  a  little  bridge  to  get  into  the 
front  garden.  But  they  loved  the  house  that  lay  so  soli- 
tary, with  a  sea-meadow  on  one  side,  and  immense  expanse 
of  land  patched  in  white  barley,  yellow  oats,  red  wheat, 
and  green  root-crops,  flat  and  stretching  level  to  the 
sky.  , 

Paul  kept  accounts.  He  and  his  mother  ran  the  show. 
The  total  expenses  —  lodging,  food,  everything  —  was  six- 
teen shillings  a  week  per  person.  He  and  Leonard  went 


Lad-and-Girl  Love  219 

bathing  in  the  morning.     Morel  was  wandering  abroad 
quite  early. 

"  You,  Paul,"  his  mother  called  from  the  bedroom,  "  eat 
a  piece  of  bread-and-butter." 

"  All  right,"  he  answered. 

And  when  he  got  back  he  saw  his  mother  presiding  in 
state  at  the  breakfast-table.  The  woman  of  the  house  was 
young.  Her  husband  was  blind,  and  she  did  laundry  work. 
So  Mrs.  Morel  always  washed  the  pots  in  the  kitchen  and 
made  the  beds. 

"  But  you  said  you  'd  have  a  real  holiday,"  said  Paul, 
"  and  now  you  work." 

"  Work !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  are  you  talking 
about!" 

He  loved  to  go  with  her  across  the  fields  to  the  village 
and  the  sea.  She  was  afraid  of  the  plank  bridges,  and 
he  abused  her  for  being  a  baby.  On  the  whole  he  stuck 
to  her  as  if  he  were  her  man. 

Miriam  did  not  get  much  of  him,  except,  perhaps,  when 
all  the  others  went  to  the  "  Coons."  Coons  were  insuffer- 
ably stupid  to  Miriam,  so  he  thought  they  were  to  him- 
self also,  and  he  preached  priggishly  to  Annie  about  the 
fatuity  of  listening  to  them.  Yet  he,  too,  knew  all  their 
songs,  and  sang  them  along  the  roads  roisterously.  And 
if  he  found  himself  listening,  the  stupidity  pleased  him 
very  much.  Yet  to  Annie  he  said: 

"  Such  rot !  there  is  n't  a  grain  of  intelligence  in  it. 
Nobody  with  more  gumption  than  a  grasshopper  could 
go  and  sit  and  listen."  And  to  Miriam  he  said,  with  much 
scorn  of  Annie  and  the  others :  "  I  suppose  they  're  at 
the  '  Coons.'  " 

It  was  queer  to  see  Miriam  singing  coon  songs.  She  had 
a  straight  chin  that  went  in  a  perpendicular  line  from 
the  lower  lip  to  the  turn.  She  always  reminded  Paul  of 
some  sad  Botticelli  angel  when  she  sang,  even  when  it 
was: 

"  Come  down  lover's  lane 
For  a  walk  with  me,  talk  with  me." 


Sons  and  Lovers 

Only  when  he  sketched,  or  at  evening  when  the  others 
were  at  the  *  Coons,'  she  had  him  to  herself.  He  talked 
to  her  endlessly  about  his  love  of  horizontals:  how  they, 
the  great  levels  of  sky  and  land  in  Lincolnshire,  meant  to 
him  the  eternality  of  the  will,  just  as  the  bowed  Norman 
arches  of  the  church,  repeating  themselves,  meant  the 
dogged  leaping  forward  of  the  persistent  human  soul,  on 
and  on,  nobody  knows  where ;  in  contradiction  to  the  per- 
pendicular lines  and  to  the  Gothic  arch,  which,  he  said, 
leapt  up  at  heaven  and  touched  the  ecstasy  and  lost  itself 
in  the  divine.  Himself,  he  said,  was  Norman,  Miriam  was 
Gothic.  She  bowed  in  consent  even  to  that. 

One  evening  he  and  she  went  up  the  great  sweeping 
shore  of  sand  towards  Theddlethorpe.  The  long  breakers 
plunged  and  ran  in  a  hiss  of  foam  along  the  coast.  It  was 
a  warm  evening.  There  was  not  a  figure  but  themselves 
on  the  far  reaches  of  sand,  no  noise  but  the  sound  of  the 
sea.  Paul  loved  to  see  it  clanging  at  the  land.  He  loved 
to  feel  himself  between  the  noise  of  it  and  the  silence  of 
the  sandy  shore.  Miriam  was  with  him.  Everything  grew 
very  intense.  It  was  quite  dark  when  they  turned  again. 
The  way  home  was  through  a  gap  in  the  sand-hills,  and 
then  along  a  raised  grass  road  between  two  dykes.  The 
country  was  black  and  still.  From  behind  the  sandhills 
came  the  whisper  of  the  sea.  Paul  and  Miriam  walked  in 
silence.  Suddenly  he  started.  The  whole  of  his  blood 
seemed  to  burst  into  flame,  and  he  could  scarcely  breathe. 
An  enormous  orange  moon  was  staring  at  them  from  the 
rim  of  the  sandhills.  He  stood  still,  looking  at  it. 

"  Ah !  "  cried  Miriam,  when  she  saw  it. 

He  remained  perfectly  still,  staring  at  the  immense 
and  ruddy  moon,  the  only  thing  in  the  far-reaching  dark- 
ness of  the  level.  His  heart  beat  heavily,  the  muscles  of 
his  arms  contracted. 

"What  is  it?"  murmured  Miriam,  waiting  for  him. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her.  She  stood  beside  him,  for 
ever  in  shadow.  Her  face,  covered  with  the  darkness  of 
her  hat,  was  watching  him  unseen.  But  she  was  brooding. 


Lad-and-Girl  Love 

She  was  slightly  afraid  —  deeply  moved  and  religious. 
That  was  her  best  state.  He  was  impotent  against  it. 
His  blood  was  concentrated  like  a  flame  in  his  chest.  But 
he  could  not  get  across  to  her.  There  were  flashes  in 
his  blood.  But  somehow  she  ignored  them.  She  was  ex- 
pecting some  religious  state  in  him.  Still  yearning,  she 
was  half  aware  of  his  passion,  and  gazed  at  him,  troubled. 

"What  is  it?  "  she  murmured  again. 

"  It 's  the  moon,"  he  answered,  frowning. 

"  Yes,"  she  assented.  "  Is  n't  it  wonderful?  "  She  was 
curious  about  him.  The  crisis  was  past. 

He  did  not  know  himself  what  was  the  matter.  He  was 
naturally  so  young,  and  their  intimacy  was  so  abstract, 
he  did  not  know  he  wanted  to  crush  her  on  to  his  breast 
to  ease  the  ache  there.  He  was  afraid  of  her.  The  fact 
that  he  might  want  her  as  a  man  wants  a  woman  had  in 
him  been  suppressed  into  a  shame.  When  she  shrank  in 
her  convulsed,  coiled  torture  from  the  thought  of  such  a 
thing,  he  had  winced  to  the  depths  of  his  soul.  And  now 
this  "  purity  "  prevented  even  their  first  love-kiss.  It  was 
as  if  she  could  scarcely  stand  the  shock  of  physical  love, 
even  a  passionate  kiss,  and  then  he  was  too  shrinking  and 
sensitive  to  give  it. 

As  they  walked  along  the  dark  fen-meadow  he  watched 
the  moon  and  did  not  speak.  She  plodded  beside  him.  He 
hated  her,  for  she  seemed  in  some  way  to  make  him  de- 
spise himself.  Looking  ahead  —  he  saw  the  one  light  in 
the  darkness,  the  window  of  their  lamp-lit  cottage. 

He  loved  to  think  of  his  mother,  and  the  other  jolly 
people. 

"  Well,  everybody  else  has  been  in  long  ago !  "  said  his 
mother  as  they  entered. 

"  What  does  that  matter !  "  he  cried  irritably.  "  I  can 
go  a  walk  if  I  like,  can't  I?  " 

"  And  I  should  have  thought  you  could  get  in  to  sup- 
per with  the  rest,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  I  shall  please  myself,"  he  retorted.  "  It  's  not  late, 
I  shall  do  as  I  like." 


222  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Very  well,"  said  his  mother  cuttingly,  "  then  do  as 
you  like."  And  she  took  no  further  notice  of  him  that 
evening.  Which  he  pretended  neither  to  notice  nor  to 
care  about,  but  sat  reading.  Miriam  read  also,  obliter- 
ating herself.  Mrs.  Morel  hated  her  for  making  her  son 
like  this.  She  watched  Paul  growing  irritable,  priggish, 
and  melancholic.  For  this  she  put  the  blame  on  Miriam. 
Annie  and  all  her  friends  joined  against  the  girl.  Miriam 
had  no  friend  of  her  own,  only  Paul.  But  she  did  not 
suffer  so  much,  because  she  despised  the  triviality  of  these 
other  people. 

And  Paul  hated  her  because,  somehow,  she  spoilt  his 
ease  and  naturalness.  And  he  writhed  himself  with  a  feel- 
ing of  humiliation. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

STRIFE    IN    LOVE 

A  RTHUR  finished  his  apprenticeship,  and  got  a  j  ob  on 
JL\.  the  electrical  plant  at  Minton  Pit.  He  earned  very 
little,  but  had  a  good  chance  of  getting  on.  But  he  was 
wild  and  restless.  He  did  not  drink  nor  gamble.  Yet 
he  somehow  contrived  to  get  into  endless  scrapes,  always 
through  some  hot-headed  thoughtlessness.  Either  he  went 
rabbiting  in  the  woods,  like  a  poacher,  or  he  stayed  in 
Nottingham  all  night  instead  of  coming  home,  or  he  mis- 
calculated his  dive  into  the  canal  at  Bestwood,  and  scored 
his  chest  into  one  mass  of  wounds  on  the  raw  stones  and 
tins  at  the  bottom. 

He  had  not  been  at  his  work  many  months  when  again 
he  did  not  come  home  at  night. 

"  Do  you  know  where  Arthur  is  ?  "  asked  Paul  at 
breakfast. 

"  I  do  not,"  Teplied  his  mother. 

"  He  is  a  fool,"  said  Paul.  "  And  if  he  did  anything 
I  should  n't  mind.  But  no,  he  simply  can't  come  away 
from  a  game  of  whist,  or  else  he  must  see  a  girl  home 
from  the  skating-rink  —  quite  proprietously  —  and  so 
can't  get  home.  He  's  a  fool." 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  would  make  it  any  better  if  he 
did  something  to  make  us  all  ashamed,"  said  Mrs. 
Morel. 

"  Well,  I  should  respect  him  more,"  said  Paul. 

"  I  very  much  doubt  it,"  said  his  mother  coldly. 

They  went  on  with  breakfast. 

"  Are  you  fearfully  fond  of  him?  "  Paul  asked  his 
mother. 

"  What  do  you  ask  that  for?  " 


Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Because  they  say  a  woman  always  likes  the  youngest 
best." 

"  She  may  do  —  but  I  don't.     No,  he  wearies  me." 

"  And  you  'd  actually  rather  he  was  good?  " 

"  I  'd  rather  he  showed  some  of  a  man's  common  sense." 

Paul  was  raw  and  irritable.  He  also  wearied  his  mother 
very  often.  She  saw  the  sunshine  going  out  of  him,  and 
she  resented  it. 

As  they  were  finishing  breakfast  came  the  postman  with 
a  letter  from  Derby.  Mrs.  Morel  screwed  up  her  eyes  to 
look  at  the  address. 

"  Give  it  here,  blind  eye !  "  exclaimed  her  son,  snatching 
it  away  from  her. 

She  started,  and  almost  boxed  his  ears. 

"  It 's  from  your  son  Arthur,"  he  said. 

"  What  now  —  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  '  My  dearest  Mother,'  "  Paul  read,  "  '  I  don't  know 
what  made  me  such  a  fool.  I  want  you  to  come  and 
fetch  me  back  from  here.  I  came  with  Jack  Bredon  yes- 
terday, instead  of  going  to  work,  and  enlisted.  He  said 
he  was  sick  of  wearing  the  seat  of  a  stool  out,  and,  like 
the  idiot  you  know  I  am,  I  came  away  with  him. 

"  '  I  have  taken  the  King's  shilling,  but  perhaps  if  you 
came  for  me  they  would  let  me  go  back  with  you.  I  was 
a  fool  when  I  did  it.  I  don't  want  to  be  in  the  army. 
My  dear  mother,  I  am  nothing  but  a  trouble  to  you.  But 
if  you  get  me  out  of  this,  I  promise  I  will  have  more  sense 
and  consideration.  .  .  .' ' 

Mrs.  Morel  sat  down  in  her  rocking-chair. 

"  Well,  now,"  she  cried,  "  let  him  stop !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Paul,  "  let  him  stop." 

There  was  silence.  The  mother  sat  with  her  hands 
folded  in  her  apron,  her  face  set,  thinking. 

"  If  I  'm  not  sick!  "  she  cried  suddenly.    "  Sick !  " 

"  Now,"  said  Paul,  beginning  to  frown,  "  you  're  not 
going  to  worry  your  soul  out  about  this,  do  you  hear?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  'm  to  take  it  as  a  blessing,"  she  flashed, 
turning  on  her  son. 


Strife  in  Love 

"  You  're  not  going  to  mount  it  up  to  a  tragedy,  so 
there,"  he  retorted. 

"  The  fool!  —  the  young  fool !  "  she  cried. 

"  He  '11  look  well  in  uniform,"  said  Paul  irritatingly. 

His  mother  turned  on  him  like  a  fury. 

"  Oh,  will  he !  "  she  cried.     "  Not  in  my  eyes !  " 

66  He  should  get  in  a  cavalry  regiment ;  he  '11  have  the 
time  of  his  life,  and  will  look  an  awful  swell." 

"  Swell !  —  swell!  —  a  mighty  swell  indeed !  —  a  com- 
mon soldier !  " 

"  Well,"  said  Paul,  "  what  am  I  but  a  common  clerk  ?  " 

"  A  good  deal,  my  boy !  "  cried  his  mother,  stung. 

"What?" 

"  At  any  rate,  a  man,  and  not  a  thing  in  a  red 
coat." 

"  I  should  n't  mind  being  in  a  red  coat  —  or  dark  blue, 
that  would  suit  me  better  —  if  they  did  n't  boss  me  about 
too  much." 

But  his  mother  had  ceased  to  listen. 

"  Just  as  he  was  getting  on,  or  might  have  been  getting 
on,  at  his  job  —  a  young  nuisance  —  here  he  goes  and 
ruins  himself  for  life.  What  good  will  he  be,  do  you  think, 
after  this?  " 

"  It  may  lick  him  into  shape  beautifully,"  said  Paul. 

"  Lick  him  into  shape !  —  lick  what  marrow  there  was 
out  of  his  bones.  A  soldier!  —  a  common  soldier!  —  noth- 
ing but  a  body  that  makes  movements  when  it  hears  a 
shout!  It's  a  fine  thing!" 

"  I  can't  understand  why  it  upsets  you,"  said  Paul. 

"  No,  perhaps  you  can't.  But  /  understand  " ;  and  she 
sat  back  in  her  chair,  her  chin  in  one  hand,  holding  her 
elbow  with  the  other,  brimmed  up  with  wrath  and  chagrin. 

"  And  shall  you  go  to  Derby  ?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  Yes." 

"  It 's  no  good." 

"  I  '11  see  for  myself." 

"  And  why  on  earth  don't  you  let  him  stop?  It 's  just 
what  he  wants." 


Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Of  course,"  cried  the  mother,  "  you  know  what  he 
wants !  " 

She  got  ready  and  went  by  the  first  train  to  Derby, 
where  she  saw  her  son  and  the  sergeant.  It  was,  however, 
no  good. 

When  Morel  was  having  his  dinner  in  the  evening,  she 
said  suddenly: 

"  I  've  had  to  go  to  Derby  to-day." 

The  miner  turned  up  his  eyes,  showing  the  whites  in  his 
black  face. 

"Has  ter,  lass?     What  took  thee  there?" 

"That  Arthur!" 

"  Oh  —  an'  what  's  agate  now?  " 

"  He  's  only  enlisted." 

Morel  put  down  his  knife  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"  Nay,"  he  said,  "  that  he  niver  'as !  " 

"  And  is  going  down  to  Aldershot  to-morrow." 

"Well!"  exclaimed  the  miner.  "That's  a  winder." 
He  considered  it  a  moment,  said  "  H'm !  "  and  proceeded 
with  his  dinner.  Suddenly  his  face  contracted  with  wrath. 
"  I  hope  he  may  never  set  foot  i'  my  house  again,"  he 
said. 

"  The  idea !  "  cried  Mrs.  Morel.  "  Saying  such  a 
thing!" 

"  I  do,"  repeated  Morel.  "  A  fool  as  runs  away  for  a 
soldier,  let  'im  look  after  'issen;  I  s'll  do  no  more  for 
5im." 

"  A  fat  sight  you  have  done  as  it  is,"  she  said. 

And  Morel  was  almost  ashamed  to  go  to  his  public- 
house  that  evening. 

"  Well,  did  you  go  ?  "  said  Paul  to  his  mother  when  he 
came  home. 

"  I  did." 

"  And  could  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"  He  blubbered  when  I  came  away." 

"H'm!" 


Strife  in  Love  ZZ7 

"  And  so  did  I,  so  you  need  n't  '  h'm  ' !  " 

Mrs.  Morel  fretted  after  her  son.  She  knew  he  would 
not  like  the  army.  He  did  not.  The  discipline  was  in- 
tolerable to  him. 

"  But  the  doctor,"  she  said  with  some  pride  to  Paul, 
"  said  he  was  perfectly  proportioned  —  almost  exactly ; 
all  his  measurements  were  correct.  He  is  good-looking, 
you  know." 

"  He  's  awfully  nice-looking.  But  he  does  n't  fetch  the 
girls  like  William,  does  he?  " 

"  No ;  it  's  a  different  character.  He  's  a  good  deal 
like  his  father,  irresponsible." 

To  console  his  mother,  Paul  did  not  go  much  to  Willey 
Farm  at  this  time.  And  in  the  autumn  exhibition  of  stu- 
dents' work  in  the  Castle  he  had  two  studies,  a  landscape 
in  water-colour  and  a  still  life  in  oil,  both  of  which  had 
first-prize  awards.  He  was  highly  excited. 

"  What  do  you  think  I  've  got  for  my  pictures, 
mother?  "  he  asked,  coming  home  one  evening.  She  saw 
by  his  eyes  he  was  glad.  Her  face  flushed. 

"  Now,  how  should  I  know,  my  boy !  " 

"A  first  prize  for  those  glass  jars  —  " 

"H'm!" 

"  And  a  first  prize  for  that  sketch  up  at  Willey 
Farm." 

"Both  first?" 

"  Yes." 

"H'm!" 

There  was  a  rosy,  bright  look  about  her,  though  she 
said  nothing. 

"  It 's  nice,"  he  said,  "  is  n't  it?  " 

"  It  is." 

"  Why  don't  you  praise  me  up  to  the  skies  ?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  I  should  have  the  trouble  of  dragging  you  down 
again,"  she  said. 

But  she  was  full  of  joy,  nevertheless.  William  had 
brought  her  his  sporting  trophies.  She  kept  them  still, 


Sons  and  Lovers 

and  she  did  not  forgive  his  death.  Arthur  was  handsome 
—  at  least,  a  good  specimen  —  and  warm  and  generous, 
and  probably  would  do  well  in  the  end.  But  Paul  was 
going  to  distinguish  himself.  She  had  a  great  belief  in 
him,  the  more  because  he  was  unaware  of  his  own  powers. 
There  was  so  much  to  come  out  of  him.  Life  for  her  was 
rich  with  promise.  She  was  to  see  herself  fulfilled.  Not 
for  nothing  had  been  her  struggle. 

Several  times  during  the  exhibition  Mrs.  Morel  went  to 
the  Castle  unknown  to  Paul.  She  wandered  down  the  long 
room  looking  at  the  other  exhibits.  Yes,  they  were  good. 
But  they  had  not  in  them  a  certain  something  which  she 
demanded  for  her  satisfaction.  Some  made  her  jealous, 
they  were  so  good.  She  looked  at  them  a  long  time 
trying  to  find  fault  with  them.  Then  suddenly  she  had 
a  shock  that  made  her  heart  beat.  There  hung  Paul's 
picture !  She  knew  it  as  if  it  were  printed  on  her  heart. 

"  Name  —  Paul  Morel  —  First  Prize." 

It  looked  so  strange,  there  in  public,  on  the  walls  of 
the  Castle  gallery,  where  in  her  lifetime  she  had  seen  so 
many  pictures.  And  she  glanced  round  to  see  if  anyone 
had  noticed  her  again  in  front  of  the  same  sketch. 

But  she  felt  a  proud  woman.  When  she  met  well- 
dressed  ladies  going  home  to  the  Park,  she  thought  to 
herself : 

"  Yes,  you  look  very  well  —  but  I  wonder  if  your  son 
has  two  first  prizes  in  the  Castle." 

And  she  walked  on,  as  proud  a  little  woman  as  any 
in  Nottingham.  And  Paul  felt  he  had  done  something  for 
her,  if  only  a  trifle.  All  his  work  was  hers. 

One  day,  as  he  was  going  up  Castle  Gate,  he  met 
Miriam.  He  had  seen  her  on  the  Sunday,  and  had  not 
expected  to  meet  her  in  town.  She  was  walking  with  a 
rather  striking  woman,  blonde,  with  a  sullen  expression, 
and  a  defiant  carriage.  It  was  strange  how  Miriam,  in  her 
bowed,  meditative  bearing,  looked  dwarfed  beside  this 
woman  with  the  handsome  shoulders.  Miriam  watched 
Paul  searchingly.  His  gaze  was  on  the  stranger,  who 


Strife  in  Love  229 

ignored  him.  The  girl  saw  his  masculine  spirit  rear  its 
head. 

"  Hello !  "  he  said,  "  you  did  n't  tell  me  you  were  coming 
to  town." 

"  No,"  replied  Miriam,  half  apologetically.  "  I  drove 
in  to  Cattle  Market  with  father." 

He  looked  at  her  companion. 

"  I  've  told  you  about  Mrs.  Dawes,"  said  Miriam 
huskily;  she  was  nervous.  "  Clara,  do  you  know  Paul?  " 

"  I  think  I  've  seen  him  before,"  replied  Mrs.  Dawes  in- 
differently, as  she  shook  hands  with  him.  She  had  scornful 
grey  eyes,  a  skin  like  white  honey,  and  a  full  mouth,  with 
a  slightly  lifted  upper  lip  that  did  not  know  whether  it  was 
raised  in  scorn  of  all  men  or  out  of  eagerness  to  be  kissed, 
but  which  believed  the  former.  She  carried  her  head  back, 
as  if  she  had  drawn  away  in  contempt,  perhaps  from  men 
also.  She  wore  a  large,  dowdy  hat  of  black  beaver,  and 
a  sort  of  slightly  affected  simple  dress  that  made  her  look 
rather  sack-like.  She  was  evidently  poor,  and  had  not 
much  taste.  Miriam  usually  looked  nice. 

"  Where  have  you  seen  me?  "  Paul  asked  of  the  woman. 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  would  not  trouble  to  answer. 
Then: 

"  Walking  with  Louie  Travers,"  she  said. 

Louie  was  one  of  the  "  spiral  "  girls. 

"  Why,  do  you  know  her?  "  he  asked. 

She  did  not  answer.     He  turned  to  Miriam. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  he  asked. 

"  To  the  Castle." 

"  What  train  are  you  going  home  by  ?  " 

"  I  am  driving  with  father.  I  wish  you  could  come  too. 
What  time  are  you  free?  " 

"  You  know  not  till  eight  to-night,  damn  it ! " 

And  directly  the  two  women  moved  on. 

Paul  remembered  that  Clara  Dawes  was  the  daughter 
of  an  old  friend  of  Mrs.  Leivers.  Miriam  had  sought  her 
out  because  she  had  once  been  spiral  overseer  at  Jordan's, 
and  because  her  husband,  Baxter  Dawes,  was  smith  for  the 


230  Sons  and  Lovers 

factory,  making  the  irons  for  cripple  instruments,  and  so 
on.  Through  her  Miriam  felt  she  got  into  direct  contact 
with  Jordan's,  and  could  estimate  better  Paul's  position. 
But  Mrs.  Dawes  was  separated  from  her  husband,  and  had 
taken  up  Women's  Rights.  She  was  supposed  to  be 
clever.  It  interested  Paul. 

Baxter  Dawes  he  knew  and  disliked.  The  smith  was  a 
man  of  thirty-one  or  thirty-two.  He  came  occasionally 
through  Paul's  corner  —  a  big,  well-set  man,  also  strik- 
ing to  look  at,  and  handsome.  There  was  a  peculiar 
similarity  between  himself  and  his  wife.  He  had  the  same 
white  skin,  with  a  clear,  golden  tinge.  His  hair  was  of 
soft  brown,  his  moustache  was  golden.  And  he  had  a 
similar  defiance  in  his  bearing  and  manner.  But  then 
came  the  difference.  His  eyes,  dark  brown  and  quick- 
shifting,  were  dissolute.  They  protruded  very  slightly, 
and  his  eyelids  hung  over  them  in  a  way  that  was  half 
hate.  His  mouth,  too,  was  sensual.  His  whole  manner  was 
of  cowed  defiance,  as  if  he  were  ready  to  knock  anybody 
down  who  disapproved  of  him  —  perhaps  because  he  really 
disapproved  of  himself. 

From  the  first  day  he  had  hated  Paul.  Finding  the 
lad's  impersonal,  deliberate  gaze  of  an  artist  on  his  face, 
he  got  into  a  fury. 

"  What  are  yer  lookin'  at  ?  "  he  sneered,  bullying. 

The  boy  glanced  away.  But  the  smith  used  to  stand 
behind  the  counter  and  talk  to  Mr.  Pappleworth.  His 
speech  was  dirty,  with  a  kind  of  rottenness.  Again  he 
found  the  youth  with  his  cool,  critical  gaze  fixed  on  his 
face.  The  smith  started  round  as  if  he  had  been  stung. 

"What'r  yer  lookin'  at,  three  hap'orth  o'  pap?"  he 
snarled. 

The  boy  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly. 

"  Why  yer  —  !  "  shouted  Dawes. 

"  Leave  him  alone,"  said  Mr.  Pappleworth,  in  that  in- 
sinuating voice  which  means  "  he  's  only  one  of  your  good 
little  sops  who  can't  help  it." 

Since  that  time  the  boy  used  to  look  at  the  man  every 


Strife  in  Love  231 

time  he  came  through  with  the  same  curious  criticism, 
glancing  away  before  he  met  the  smith's  eyes.  It  made 
Dawes  furious.  They  hated  each  other  in  silence. 

Clara  Dawes  had  no  children.  When  she  had  left  her 
husband  the  home  had  been  broken  up,  and  she  had  gone 
to  live  with  her  mother.  Dawes  lodged  with  his  sister. 
In  the  same  house  was  a  sister-in-law,  and  somehow  Paul 
knew  that  this  girl,  Louie  Travers,  was  now  Dawes's 
woman.  She  was  a  handsome,  insolent  hussy,  who  mocked 
at  the  youth,  and  yet  flushed  if  he  walked  along  to  the 
station  with  her  as  she  went  home. 

The  next  time  he  went  to  see  Miriam  it  was  Saturday 
evening.  She  had  a  fire  in  the  parlour,  and  was  waiting 
for  him.  The  others,  except  her  father  and  mother  and 
the  young  children,  had  gone  out,  so  the  two  had  the  par- 
lour together.  It  was  a  long,  low,  warm  room.  There 
were  three  of  Paul's  small  sketches  on  the  wall,  and  his 
photo  was  on  the  mantelpiece.  On  the  table  and  on  the 
high  old  rosewood  piano  were  bowls  of  coloured  leaves. 
He  sat  in  the  arm-chair,  she  crouched  on  the  hearthrug 
near  his  feet.  The  glow  was  warm  on  her  handsome,  pen- 
sive face  as  she  kneeled  there  like  a  devotee. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  Mrs.  Dawes  ? "  she  asked 
quietly. 

"  She  does  n't  look  very  amiable,"  he  replied. 

"No,  but  don't  you  think  she's  a  fine  woman?"  she 
said,  in  a  deep  tone. 

"  Yes  —  in  stature.  But  without  a  grain  of  taste.  I 
like  her  for  some  things.  Is  she  disagreeable?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so.    I  think  she  's  dissatisfied." 

"What  with?" 

"  Well  —  how  would  you  like  to  be  tied  for  life  to  a  man 
like  that?  " 

"  Why  did  she  marry  him,  then,  if  she  was  to  have 
revulsions  so  soon?  " 

"  Ay,  why  did  she !  "  repeated  Miriam  bitterly. 

"  And  I  should  have  thought  she  had  enough  fight  in  her 
to  match  him,"  he  said. 


Sons  and  Lovers 

Miriam  bowed  her  head. 

"Ay?"  she  queried  satirically.  "What  makes  you 
think  so?" 

"  Look  at  her  mouth  —  made  for  passion  —  and  the 
very  set-back  of  her  throat  —  "  He  threw  his  head  back 
in  Clara's  defiant  manner. 

Miriam  bowed  a  little  lower. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  silence  for  some  moments,  while  he  thought 
of  Clara. 

"  And  what  were  the  things  you  liked  about  her?  "  she 
asked. 

"  I.  don't  know  —  her  skin  and  the  texture  of  her  — 
and  her  —  I  don't  know  —  there  's  a  sort  of  fierceness 
somewhere  in  her.  I  appreciate  her  as  an  artist,  that 's 
all." 

"  Yes." 

He  wondered  why  Miriam  crouched  there  brooding  in 
that  strange  way.  It  irritated  him. 

"  You  don't  really  like  her,  do  you  ?  "  he  asked  the  girl. 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  great,  dazzled  dark  eyes. 

"  I  do,"  she  said. 

"  You  don't  —  you  can't  —  not  really." 

"  Then  what  ?  "  she  asked  slowly. 

"  Eh,  I  don't  know  —  perhaps  you  like  her  because 
she  's  got  a  grudge  against  men." 

That  was  more  probably  one  of  his  own  reasons  for 
liking  Mrs.  Dawes,  but  this  did  not  occur  to  him.  They 
were  silent.  There  had  come  into  his  forehead  a  knitting 
of  the  brows  which  was  becoming  habitual  with  him,  par- 
ticularly when  he  was  with  Miriam.  She  longed  to  smooth 
it  away,  and  she  was  afraid  of  it.  It  seemed  the  stamp  of 
a  man  who  was  not  her  man  in  Paul  Morel. 

There  were  some  crimson  berries  among  the  leaves  in 
the  bowl.  He  reached  over  and  pulled  out  a  bunch. 

"  If  you  put  red  berries  in  your  hair,"  he  said,  "  why 
would  you  look  like  some  witch  or  priestess,  and  never  like 
a  reveller?  " 


Strife  in  Love  233 

She  laughed  with  a  naked,  painful  sound. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said. 

His  vigorous  warm  hands  were  playing  excitedly  with 
the  berries. 

"  Why  can't  you  laugh?  "  he  said.  "  You  never  laugh 
laughter.  You  only  laugh  when  something  is  odd  or  in- 
congruous, and  then  it  almost  seems  to  hurt  you." 

She  bowed  her  head  as  if  he  were  scolding  her. 

"  I  wish  you  could  laugh  at  me  just  for  one  minute  — 
just  for  one  minute.  I  feel  as  if  it  would  set  something 
free." 

"  But  "  —  and  she  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  fright- 
ened and  struggling  —  "  I  do  laugh  at  you  —  I  do." 

"  Never !  There  's  always  a  kind  of  intensity.  When 
you  laugh  I  could  always  cry;  it  seems  as  if  it  shows  up 
your  suffering.  Oh,  you  make  me  knit  the  brows  of  my 
very  soul  and  cogitate." 

Slowly  she  shook  her  head  despairingly. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  want  to,"  she  said. 

"  I  'm  so  damned  spiritual  with  you  always !  "  he  cried. 

She  remained  silent,  thinking,  "  Then  why  don't  you  be 
otherwise?  "  But  he  saw  her  crouching,  brooding  figure, 
and  it  seemed  to  tear  him  in  two. 

"  But  there,  it 's  autumn,"  he  said,  "  and  everybody 
feels  like  a  disembodied  spirit  then." 

There  was  still  another  silence.  This  peculiar  sadness 
between  them  thrilled  her  soul.  He  seemed  so  beautiful, 
with  his  eyes  gone  dark,  and  looking  as  if  they  were  deep 
as  the  deepest  well. 

"  You  make  me  so  spiritual !  "  he  lamented.  "  And  I 
don't  want  to  be  spiritual." 

She  took  her  finger  from  her  mouth  with  a  little  pop, 
and  looked  up  at  him  almost  challenging.  But  still  her 
soul  was  naked  in  her  great  dark  eyes,  and  there  was  the 
same  yearning  appeal  upon  her.  If  he  could  have  kissed 
her  in  abstract  purity  he  would  have  done  so.  But  he 
could  not  kiss  her  thus  —  and  she  seemed  to  leave  no  other 
way.  And  she  yearned  to  him. 


234  Sons  and  Lovers 

He  gave  a  brief  laugh. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  «  get  that  French  and  we  '11  do  some 
—  some  Verlaine." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  in  a  deep  tone,  almost  of  resignation. 
And  she  rose  and  got  the  books.  And  her  rather  red,  ner- 
vous hands  looked  so  pitiful,  he  was  mad  to  comfort  her 
and  kiss  her.  But  then  he  dared  not  —  or  could  not. 
There  was  something  prevented  him.  His  kisses  were 
wrong  for  her.  They  continued  the  reading  till  ten 
o'clock,  when  they  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  Paul  was 
natural  and  jolly  again  with  the  father  and  mother. 
His  eyes  were  dark  and  shining;  there  was  a  kind  of 
fascination  about  him. 

When  he  went  into  the  barn  for  his  bicycle  he  found  the 
front  wheel  punctured. 

"  Fetch  me  a  drop  of  water  in  a  bowl,"  he  said  to  her. 
"  I  shall  be  late,  and  then  I  s'll  catch  it." 

He  lighted  the  hurricane  lamp,  took  off  his  coat,  turned 
up  the  bicycle,  and  set  speedily  to  work.  Miriam  came 
with  the  bowl  of  water  and  stood  close  to  him,  watching. 
She  loved  to  see  his  hands  doing  things.  He  was  slim 
and  vigorous,  with  a  kind  of  easiness  even  in  his  most 
hasty  movements.  And  busy  at  his  work,  he  seemed  to 
forget  her.  She  loved  him  absorbedly.  She  wanted  to 
run  her  hands  down  his  sides.  She  always  wanted  to  em- 
brace him,  so  long  as  he  did  not  want  her. 

"  There !  "  he  said,  rising  suddenly.  "  Now,  could  you 
have  done  it  quicker?  " 

"  No  !  "  she  laughed. 

He  straightened  himself.  His  back  was  towards  her. 
She  put  her  two  hands  on  his  sides,  and  ran  them  quickly 
down. 

"  You  are  so  fine!  "  she  said. 

He  laughed,  hating  her  voice,  but  his  blood  roused  to 
a  wave  of  flame  by  her  hands.  She  did  not  seem  to  realize 
him  in  all  this.  He  might  have  been  an  object.  She 
never  realized  the  male  he  was. 

He  lighted  his  bicycle-lamp,  bounced  the  machine  on  the 


Strife  in  Love  235 

barn  floor  to  see  that  the  tyres  were  sound,  and  buttoned 
his  coat. 

"  That 's  all  right !  "  he  said. 

She  was  trying  the  brakes,  that  she  knew  were  broken. 

"  Did  you  have  them  mended?  "  she  asked. 

"  No !  " 

"But  why  didn't  you?" 

"  The  back  one  goes  on  a  bit." 

"  But  it 's  not  safe." 

"  I  can  use  my  toe." 

"  I  wish  you  'd  had  them  mended,"  she  murmured. 

"  Don't  worry  —  come  to  tea  to-morrow,  with  Edgar." 

"  Shall  we?  " 

"  Do  —  about  four.     I  '11  come  to  meet  you." 

"  Very  well." 

She  was  pleased.  They  went  across  the  dark  yard  to 
the  gate.  Looking  across,  he  saw  through  the  uncurtained 
window  of  the  kitchen  the  heads  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leivers 
in  the  warm  glow.  It  looked  very  cosy.  The  road,  with 
pine-trees,  was  quite  black  in  front. 

"  Till  to-morrow,"  he  said,  jumping  on  his  bicycle. 

"  You  '11  take  care,  won't  you  ?  "  she  pleaded. 

"  Yes." 

His  voice  already  came  out  of  the  darkness.  She  stood 
a  moment  watching  the  light  from  his  lamp  race  into 
obscurity  along  the  ground.  She  turned  very  slowly  in- 
doors. Orion  was  wheeling  up  over  the  wood,  his  dog 
twinkling  after  him,  half  smothered.  For  the  rest,  the 
world  was  full  of  darkness,  and  silent,  save  for  the  breath- 
ing of  cattle  in  their  stalls.  She  prayed  earnestly  for  his 
safety  that  night.  When  he  left  her,  she  often  lay  in 
anxiety,  wondering  if  he  had  got  home  safely. 

He  dropped  down  the  hills  on  his  bicycle.  The  roads 
were  greasy,  so  he  had  to  let  it  go.  He  felt  a  pleasure 
as  the  machine  plunged  over  the  second,  steeper  drop  in 
the  hill.  "  Here  goes !  "  he  said.  It  was  risky,  because  of 
the  curve  in  the  darkness  at  the  bottom,  and  because  of 
the  brewers'  waggons  with  drunken  waggoners  asleep. 


236  Sons  and  Lovers 

His  bicycle  seemed  to  fall  beneath  him,  and  he  loved  it. 
Recklessness  is  almost  a  man's  revenge  on  his  woman. 
He  feels  he  is  not  valued,  so  he  will  risk  destroying  him- 
self to  deprive  her  altogether. 

The  stars  on  the  lake  seemed  to  leap  like  grasshoppers, 
silver  upon  the  blackness,  as  he  spun  past.  Then  there 
was  the  long  climb  home. 

"  See,  mother !  "  he  said,  as  he  threw  her  the  berries 
and  leaves  on  to  the  table. 

"  H'm !  "  she  said,  glancing  at  them,  then  away  again. 
She  sat  reading,  alone,  as  she  always  did. 

"Aren't  they  pretty?" 

"  Yes." 

He  knew  she  was  cross  with  him.  After  a  few  minutes 
he  said: 

"  Edgar  and  Miriam  are  coming  to  tea  to-morrow." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"You  don't  mind?" 

Still  she  did  not  answer. 

"Do  you?  "he  asked. 

"  You  know  whether  I  mind  or  not." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should.  I  have  plenty  of  meals 
there." 

"  You  do." 

"  Then  why  do  you  begrudge  them  tea  ?  " 

"  I  begrudge  whom  tea  ?  " 

"  What  are  you  so  horrid  for  ?  " 

"  Oh,  say  no  more !  You  've  asked  her  to  tea,  it 's  quite 
sufficient.  She  '11  come." 

He  was  very  angry  with  his  mother.  He  knew  it  was 
merely  Miriam  she  objected  to.  He  flung  off  his  boots 
and  went  to  bed. 

Paul  went  to  meet  his  friends  the  next  afternoon.  He 
was  glad  to  see  them  coming.  They  arrived  home  at  about 
four  o'clock.  Everywhere  was  clean  and  still  for  Sunday 
afternoon.  Mrs.  Morel  sat  in  her  black  dress  and  black 
apron.  She  rose  to  meet  the  visitors.  With  Edgar  she 
was  cordial,  but  with  Miriam  cold  and  rather  grudging. 


Strife  in  Love  237 

Yet  Paul  thought  the  girl  looked  so  nice  in  her  brown  cash- 
mere frock. 

He  helped  his  mother  to  get  the  tea  ready.  Miriam 
would  have  gladly  proffered,  but  was  afraid.  He  was 
rather  proud  of  his  home.  There  was  about  it  now,  he 
thought,  a  certain  distinction.  The  chairs  were  only 
wooden,  and  the  sofa  was  old.  But  the  hearthrug  and 
cushions  were  cosy;  the  pictures  were  prints  in  good 
taste;  there  was  a  simplicity  in  everything,  and  plenty 
of  books.  He  was  never  ashamed  in  the  least  of  his  home, 
nor  was  Miriam  of  hers,  because  both  were  what  they 
should  be,  and  warm.  And  then  he  was  proud  of  the 
table;  the  china  was  pretty,  the  cloth  was  fine.  It  did 
not  matter  that  the  spoons  were  not  silver  nor  the  knives 
ivory-handled;  everything  looked  nice.  Mrs.  Morel  had 
managed  wonderfully  while  her  children  were  growing 
up,  so  that  nothing  was  out  of  place. 

Miriam  talked  books  a  little.  That  was  her  unfailing 
topic.  But  Mrs.  Morel  was  not  cordial,  and  turned  soon 
to  Edgar. 

At  first  Edgar  and  Miriam  used  to  go  into  Mrs.  Morel's 
pew.  Morel  never  went  to  chapel,  preferring  the  public- 
house.  Mrs.  Morel,  like  a  little  champion,  sat  at  the  head 
of  her  pew,  Paul  at  the  other  end ;  and  at  first  Miriam  sat 
next  to  him.  Then  the  chapel  was  like  home.  It  was 
a  pretty  place,  with  dark  pews  and  slim,  elegant  pillars, 
and  flowers.  And  the  same  people  had  sat  in  the  same 
places  ever  since  he  was  a  boy.  It  was  wonderfully  sweet 
and  soothing  to  sit  there  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  next 
to  Miriam,  and  near  to  his  mother,  uniting  his  two  loves 
under  the  spell  of  the  place  of  worship.  Then  he  felt 
warm  and  happy  and  religious  at  once.  And  after  chapel 
he  walked  home  with  Miriam,  whilst  Mrs.  Morel  spent  the 
rest  of  the  evening  with  her  old  friend,  Mrs.  Burns.  He 
was  keenly  alive  on  his  walks  on  Sunday  nights  with  Edgar 
and  Miriam.  He  never  went  past  the  pits  at  night,  by 
the  lighted  lamp-house,  the  tall  black  head-stocks  and  lines 
of  trucks,  past  the  fans  spinning  slowly  like  shadows, 


238  Sons  and  Lovers 

without  the  feeling  of  Miriam  returning  to  him,  keen  and 
almost  unbearable. 

She  did  not  very  long  occupy  the  Morels'  pew.  Her 
father  took  one  for  themselves  once  more.  It  was  under 
the  little  gallery,  opposite  the  Morels'.  When  Paul  and 
his  mother  came  in  the  chapel  the  Leivers'  pew  was  always 
empty.  He  was  anxious  for  fear  she  would  not  come:  it 
was  so  far,  and  there  were  so  many  rainy  Sundays.  Then, 
often  very  late  indeed,  she  came  in,  with  her  long  stride, 
her  head  bowed,  her  face  hidden  under  her  hat  of  dark 
green  velvet.  Her  face,  as  she  sat  opposite,  was  always 
in  shadow.  But  it  gave  him  a  very  keen  feeling,  as  if  all 
his  soul  stirred  within  him,  to  see  her  there.  It  was  not 
the  same  glow,  happiness,  and  pride,  that  he  felt  in  having 
his  mother  in  charge:  something  more  wonderful,  less 
human,  and  tinged  to  intensity  by  a  pain,  as  if  there  were 
something  he  could  not  get  to. 

At  this  time  he  was  beginning  to  question  the  orthodox 
creed.  He  was  twenty-one,  and  she  was  twenty.  She  was 
beginning  to  dread  the  spring:  he  became  so  wild,  and 
hurt  her  so  much.  All  the  way  he  went  cruelly  smashing 
her  beliefs.  Edgar  enjoyed  it.  He  was  by  nature  critical 
and  rather  dispassionate.  But  Miriam  suffered  exquisite 
pain,  as,  with  an  intellect  like  a  knife,  the  man  she  loved 
examined  her  religion  in  which  she  lived  and  moved  and 
had  her  being.  But  he  did  not  spare  her.  He  was  cruel. 
And  when  they  went  alone  he  was  even  more  fierce,  as  if 
he  would  kill  her  soul.  He  bled  her  beliefs  till  she  almost 
lost  consciousness. 

"  She  exults  —  she  exults  as  she  carries  him  off  from 
me,"  Mrs.  Morel  cried  in  her  heart  when  Paul  had  gone. 
"  She  's  not  like  an  ordinary  woman,  who  can  leave  me 
my  share  in  him.  She  wants  to  absorb  him.  She  wants 
to  draw  him  out  and  absorb  him  till  there  is  nothing  left 
of  him,  even  for  himself.  He  will  never  be  a  man  on  his 
own  feet  —  she  will  suck  him  up."  So  the  mother  sat,  and 
battled  and  brooded  bitterly. 

And  he,  coming  home  from  his  walks  with  Miriam,  was 


Strife  in  Love  239 

wild  with  torture.  He  walked  biting  his  lips  and  with 
clenched  fists,  going  at  a  great  rate.  Then,  brought  up 
against  a  stile,  he  stood  for  some  minutes,  and  did  not 
move.  There  was  a  great  hollow  of  darkness  fronting  him, 
and  on  the  black  up-slopes  patches  of  tiny  lights,  and  in 
the  lowest  trough  of  the  night,  a  flare  of  the  pit.  It  was 
all  weird  and  dreadful.  Why  was  he  torn  so,  almost  be- 
wildered, and  unable  to  move?  Why  did  his  mother  sit 
at  home  and  suffer?  He  knew  she  suffered  badly.  But 
why  should  she?  And  why  did  he  hate  Miriam,  and  feel 
so  cruel  towards  her,  at  the  thought  of  his  mother.  If 
Miriam  caused  his  mother  suffering,  then  he  hated  her  — 
and  he  easily  hated  her.  Why  did  she  make  him  feel  as 
if  he  were  uncertain  of  himself,  insecure,  an  indefinite 
thing,  as  if  he  had  not  sufficient  sheathing  to  prevent  the 
night  and  the  space  breaking  into  him?  How  he  hated 
her!  And  then,  what  a  rush  of  tenderness  and 
humility ! 

Suddenly  he  plunged  on  again,  running  home.  His 
mother  saw  on  him  the  marks  of  some  agony,  and  she 
said  nothing.  But  he  had  to  make  her  talk  to  him. 
Then  she  was  angry  with  him  for  going  so  far  with 
Miriam. 

"  Why  don't  you  like  her,  mother  ?  "  he  cried  in  despair. 

"  I  don't  know,  my  boy,"  she  replied  piteously.  "  I  'm 
sure  I  've  tried  to  like  her.  I  've  tried  and  tried,  but  I 
can't  —  I  can't !  " 

And  he  felt  dreary  and  hopeless  between  the  two. 

Spring  was  the  worst  time.  He  was  changeable,  and 
intense,  and  cruel.  So  he  decided  to  stay  away  from  her. 
Then  came  the  hours  when  he  knew  Miriam  was  expecting 
him.  His  mother  watched  him  growing  restless.  He  could 
not  go  on  with  his  work.  He  could  do  nothing.  It  was 
as  if  something  were  drawing  his  soul  out  towards  Willey 
Farm.  Then  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went,  saying  nothing. 
And  his  mother  knew  he  was  gone.  And  as  soon  as  he  was 
on  the  way  he  sighed  with  relief.  And  when  he  was  with 
her  he  was  cruel  again. 


240  Sons  and  Lovers 

One  day  in  March  he  lay  on  the  bank  of  Nethermere, 
with  Miriam  sitting  beside  him.  It  was  a  glistening,  white- 
and-blue  day.  Big  clouds,  so  brilliant,  went  by  overhead, 
white  shadows  stole  along  on  the  water.  The  clear  spaces 
in  the  sky  were  of  clean,  cold  blue.  Paul  lay  on  his  back 
in  the  old  grass,  looking  up.  He  could  not  bear  to  look 
at  Miriam.  She  seemed  to  want  him,  and  he  resisted.  He 
resisted  all  the  time.  He  wanted  now  to  give  her  passion 
and  tenderness,  and  he  could  not.  He  felt  that  she  wanted 
the  soul  out  of  his  body,  and  not  him.  All  his  strength 
and  energy  she  drew  into  herself  through  some  channel 
which  united  them.  She  did  not  want  to  meet  him,  so  that 
there  were  two  of  them,  man  and  woman  together.  She 
wanted  to  draw  all  of  him  into  her.  It  urged  him  to  an 
intensity  like  madness,  which  fascinated  him,  as  drug- 
taking  might. 

He  was  discussing  Michael  Angelo.  It  felt  to  her  as  if 
she  were  fingering  the  very  quivering  tissue,  the  very 
protoplasm  of  life,  as  she  heard  him.  It  gave  her  her 
deepest  satisfaction.  And  in  the  end  it  frightened  her. 
There  he  lay  in  the  white  intensity  of  his  search,  and  his 
voice  gradually  filled  her  with  fear,  so  level  it  was,  almost 
inhuman,  as  if  in  a  trance. 

"  Don't  talk  any  more,"  she  pleaded  softly,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  forehead. 

He  lay  quite  still,  almost  unable  to  move.  His  body 
was  somewhere  discarded. 

"  Why  not?    Are  you  tired?  " 

"  Yes,  and  it  wears  you  out." 

He  laughed  shortly,  realizing. 

"  Yet  you  always  make  me  like  it,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  wish  to,"  she  said,  very  low. 

"  Not  when  you  've  gone  too  far,  and  you  feel  you  can't 
bear  it.  But  your  unconscious  self  always  asks  it  of  me. 
And  I  suppose  I  want  it." 

He  went  on,  in  his  dead  fashion: 

"  If  only  you  could  want  me,  and  not  want  what  I  can 
reel  off  for  you !  " 


Strife  in  Love  241 

"  I !  "  she  cried  bitterly  —  "  I !  Why,  when  would  you 
let  me  take  you?  " 

"  Then  it  's  my  fault,"  he  said,  and,  gathering  himself 
together,  he  got  up  and  began  to  talk  trivialities.  He  felt 
insubstantial.  In  a  vague  way  he  hated  her  for  it.  And 
he  knew  he  was  as  much  to  blame  himself.  This,  however, 
did  not  prevent  his  hating  her. 

One  evening  about  this  time  he  had  walked  along  the 
home  road  with  her.  They  stood  by  the  pasture  leading 
down  to  the  wood,  unable  to  part.  As  the  stars  came  out 
the  clouds  closed.  They  had  glimpses  of  their  own  con- 
stellation, Orion,  towards  the  west.  His  jewels  glimmered 
for  a  moment,  his  dog  ran  low,  struggling  with  difficulty 
through  the  spume  of  cloud. 

Orion  was  for  them  chief  in  significance  among  the  con- 
stellations. They  had  gazed  at  him  in  their  strange,  sur- 
charged hours  of  feeling,  until  they  seemed  themselves  to 
live  in  every  one  of  his  stars.  This  evening  Paul  had  been 
moody  and  perverse.  Orion  had  seemed  just  an  ordinary 
constellation  to  him.  He  had  fought  against  his  glamour 
and  fascination.  Miriam  was  watching  her  lover's  mood 
carefully.  But  he  said  nothing  that  gave  him  away,  till 
the  moment  came  to  part,  when  he  stood  frowning  gloomily 
at  the  gathered  clouds,  behind  which  the  great  constella- 
tion must  be  striding  still. 

There  was  to  be  a  little  party  at  his  house  the  next  day, 
at  which  she  was  to  attend. 

"  I  shan't  come  and  meet  you,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  very  well ;  it 's  not  very  nice  out,"  she  replied 
slowly. 

"  It 's  not  that  —  only  they  don't  like  me  to.  They  say 
I  care  more  for  you  than  for  them.  And  you  under- 
stand, don't  you?  You  know  it 's  only  friendship." 

Miriam  was  astonished  and  hurt  for  him.  It  had  cost 
him  an  effort.  She  left  him,  wanting  to  spare  him  any 
further  humiliation.  A  fine  rain  blew  in  her  face  as  she 
walked  along  the  road.  She  was  hurt  deep  down ;  and  she 
despised  him  for  being  blown  about  by  any  wind  of  au- 


Sons  and  Lovers 

thority.  And  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  unconsciously,  she 
felfr  that  he  was  trying  to  get  away  from  her.  This  she 
would  never  have  acknowledged.  She  pitied  him. 

At  this  time  Paul  became  an  important  factor  in  Jor- 
dan's warehouse.  Mr.  Pappleworth  left  to  set  up  a  busi- 
ness of  his  own,  and  Paul  remained  with  Mr.  Jordan  as 
spiral  overseer.  His  wages  were  to  be  raised  to  thirty 
shillings  at  the  year-end,  if  things  went  well. 

Still  on  Friday  night  Miriam  often  came  down  for  her 
French  lesson.  Paul  did  not  go  so  frequently  to  Willey 
Farm,  and  she  grieved  at  the  thought  of  her  education's 
coming  to  an  end;  moreover,  they  both  loved  to  be  to- 
gether, in  spite  of  discords.  So  they  read  Balzac,  and  did 
compositions,  and  felt  highly  cultured. 

Friday  night  was  reckoning  night  for  the  miners. 
Morel  "  reckoned  "  —  shared  up  the  money  at  the  stall 
—  either  in  the  New  Inn  at  Bretty  or  in  his  own  house, 
according  as  his  fellow-butties  wished.  Barker  had  turned 
a  non-drinker,  so  now  the  men  reckoned  at  Morel's  house. 

Annie,  who  had  been  teaching  away,  was  at  home  again. 
She  was  still  a  tomboy;  and  she  was  engaged  to  be 
married.  Paul  was  studying  design. 

Morel  was  always  in  good  spirits  on  Friday  evening, 
unless  the  week's  earnings  were  small.  He  bustled  im- 
mediately after  his  dinner,  prepared  to  get  washed.  It 
was  decorum  for  the  women  to  absent  themselves  while 
the  men  reckoned.  Women  were  not  supposed  to  spy  into 
such  a  masculine  privacy  as  the  butties'  reckoning,  nor 
were  they  to  know  the  exact  amount  of  the  week's  earn- 
ings. So,  whilst  her  father  was  spluttering  in  the  scullery, 
Annie  went  out  to  spend  an  hour  with  a  neighbour.  Mrs. 
Morel  attended  to  her  baking. 

"  Shut  that  doo-er !  "  bawled  Morel  furiously. 

Annie  banged  it  behind  her,  and  was  gone. 

"  If  tha  oppens  it  again  while  I  'm  weshin'  me,  I  '11 
ma'e  thy  jaw  rattle,"  he  threatened  from  the  midst 
of  his  soapsuds.  Paul  and  the  mother  frowned  to  hear 
him. 


Strife  in  Love  243 

Presently  he  came  running  out  of  the  scullery,  with  the 
soapy  water  dripping  from  him,  dithering  with  cold. 

"  Oh,  my  sirs !  "  he  said.     "  Wheer  's  my  towel?  " 

It  was  hung  on  a  chair  to  warm  before  the  fire,  otherwise 
he  would  have  bullied  and  blustered.  He  squatted  on  his 
heels  before  the  hot  baking-fire  to  dry  himself. 

"  F-ff-f !  "  he  went,  pretending  to  shudder  with  cold. 

"  Goodness,  man,  don't  be  such  a  kid !  "  said  Mrs.  Morel. 
"  It 's  not  cold." 

"  Thee  strip  thysen  stark  nak'd  to  wesh  thy  flesh  i' 
that  scullery,"  said  the  miner,  as  he  rubbed  his  hair; 
"  nowt  b'r  a  ice-'ouse !  " 

"  And  I  should  n't  make  that  fuss,"  replied  his  wife. 

"  No,  tha  'd  drop  down  stiff,  as  dead  as  a  door-knob, 
wi'  thy  nesh  sides." 

"  Why  is  a  door-knob  deader  than  anything  else  ?  " 
asked  Paul,  curious. 

"  Eh,  I  dunno ;  that 's  what  they  say,"  replied  his 
father.  "  But  there  's  that  much  draught  i5  yon  scullery, 
as  it  blows  through  your  ribs  like  through  a  five-barred 
gate." 

"  It  would  have  some  difficulty  in  blowing  through 
yours,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

Morel  looked  down  ruefully  at  his  sides. 

"  Me !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  'm  nowt  b'r  a  skinned  rab- 
bit. My  bones  fair  juts  out  on  me." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  where,"  retorted  his  wife. 

"  Iv'ry-wheer !    I  'm  nobbut  a  sack  o'  faggots." 

Mrs.  Morel  laughed.  He  had  still  a  wonderfully  young 
body,  muscular,  without  any  fat.  His  skin  was  smooth 
and  clear.  It  might  have  been  the  body  of  a  man  of 
twenty-eight,  except  that  there  were,  perhaps,  too  many 
blue  scars,  like  tattoo-marks,  where  the  coal-dust  remained 
under  the  skin,  and  that  his  chest  was  too  hairy.  But  he 
put  his  hand  on  his  sides  ruefully.  It  was  his  fixed  belief 
that,  because  he  did  not  get  fat,  he  was  as  thin  as  a  starved 
rat. 

Paul  looked  at  his  father's  thick,  brownish  hands  all 


244  Sons  and  Lovers 

scarred,  with  broken  nails,  rubbing  the  fine  smoothness  of 
his  sides,  and  the  incongruity  struck  him.  It  seemed 
strange  they  were  the  same  flesh. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said  to  his  father,  "  you  had  a  good 
figure  once." 

"  Eh !  "  exclaimed  the  miner,  glancing  round,  startled 
and  timid,  like  a  child. 

"  He  had,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Morel,  "  if  he  did  n't  hurtle 
himself  up  as  if  he  was  trying  to  get  in  the  smallest  space 
he  could." 

"  Me !  "  exclaimed  Morel  —  "  me  a  good  figure !  I  wor 
niver  much  more  n'r  a  skeleton." 

"  Man !  "  cried  his  wife,  "  don't  be  such  a  pulamiter !  " 

"  'Strewth !  "  he  said.  "  Tha  's  niver  knowed  me  but 
what  I  looked  as  if  I  wor  goin'  off  in  a  rapid  decline." 

She  sat  and  laughed. 

'  You  've  had  a  constitution  like  iron,"  she  said ;  "  and 
never  a  man  had  a  better  start,  if  it  was  body  that 
counted.  You  should  have  seen  him  as  a  young  man," 
she  cried  suddenly  to  Paul,  drawing  herself  up  to  imitate 
her  husband's  once  handsome  bearing. 

Morel  watched  her  shyly.  He  saw  again  the  passion  she 
had  had  for  him.  It  blazed  upon  her  for  a  moment. 
He  was  shy,  rather  scared,  and  humble.  Yet  again  he 
felt  his  old  glow.  And  then  immediately  he  felt  the  ruin 
he  had  made  during  these  years.  He  wanted  to  bustle 
about,  to  run  away  from  it. 

"  Gi'e  my  back  a  bit  of  a  wesh,"  he  asked  her. 

His  wife  brought  a  well-soaped  flannel  and  clapped  it 
on  his  shoulders.  He  gave  a  jump. 

"  Eh,  tha  mucky  little  'ussy !  "  he  cried.  "  Cowd  as 
death!" 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  a  salamander,"  she  laughed, 
washing  his  back.  It  was  very  rarely  she  would  do  any- 
thing so  personal  for  him.  The  children  did  those  things. 

"  The  next  world  won't  be  half  hot  enough  for  you," 
she  added. 

"  No,"  he  said;   "  tha  'It  see  as  it 's  draughty  for  me." 


Strife  in  Love  245 

But  she  had  finished.  She  wiped  him  in  a  desultory 
fashion,  and  went  upstairs,  returning  immediately  with 
his  shifting-trousers.  When  he  was  dried  he  struggled  into 
his  shirt.  Then,  ruddy  and  shiny,  with  hair  on  end,  and 
his  flannelette  shirt  hanging  over  his  pit-trousers,  he 
stood  warming  the  garments  he  was  going  to  put  on.  He 
turned  them,  he  pulled  them  inside  out,  he  scorched  them. 

"  Goodness,  man !  "  cried  Mrs.  Morel ;   "  get  dressed !  " 

"  Should  thee  like  to  clap  thysen  into  britches  as  cowd 
as  a  tub  o'  water?  "  he  said. 

At  last  he  took  off  his  pit-trousers  and  donned  decent 
black.  He  did  all  this  on  the  hearthrug,  as  he  would  have 
done  if  Annie  and  her  familiar  friends  had  been  present. 

Mrs.  Morel  turned  the  bread  in  the  oven.  Then  from 
the  red  earthenware  panchion  of  dough  that  stood  in  a 
corner  she  took  another  handful  of  paste,  worked  it  to  the 
proper  shape,  and  dropped  it  into  a  tin.  As  she  was 
doing  so  Barker  knocked  and  entered.  He  was  a  quiet, 
compact  little  man,  who  looked  as  if  he  would  go  through 
a  stone  wall.  His  black  hair  was  cropped  short,  his  head 
was  bony.  Like  most  miners,  he  was  pale,  but  healthy 
and  taut. 

•"  Evenin',  missis,"  he  nodded  to  Mrs.  Morel,  and  he 
seated  himself  with  a  sigh. 

66  Good-evening,"  she  replied  cordially. 

"  Tha  's  made  thy  heels  crack,"  said  Morel. 

"  I  dunno  as  I  have,"  said  Barker. 

He  sat,  as  the  men  always  did  in  Mrs.  Morel's  kitchen, 
effacing  himself  rather. 

"  How  's  missis  ?  "  she  asked  of  him. 

He  had  told  her  some  time  back: 

"  We  're  expectin'  us  third  just  now,  you  see." 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  rubbing  his  head,  "  she  keeps 
pretty  middlin',  I  think." 

"  Let 's  see  —  when?  "  asked  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  Well,  I  should  n't  be  surprised  any  time  now." 

"  Ah !    And  she  's  kept  fairly?  " 

"  Yes,  tidy." 


246  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  That 's  a  blessing,  for  she  's  none  too  strong." 

"  No.     An'  I  've  done  another  silly  trick." 

"What's  that?" 

Mrs.  Morel  knew  Barker  would  n't  do  anything  very 
silly. 

"  I  'm  come  be-out  th'  market-bag." 

"  You  can  have  mine." 

"  Nay,  you  '11  be  wantin'  that  yourself." 

"  I  shan't.     I  take  a  string  bag  always." 

She  saw  the  determined  little  collier  buying  in  the  week's 
groceries  and  meat  on  the  Friday  nights,  and  she  admired 
him.  "  Barker  's  little,  but  he  's  ten  times  the  man  you 
are,"  she  said  to  her  husband. 

Just  then  Wesson  entered.  He  was  thin,  rather  frail- 
looking,  with  a  boyish  ingenuousness  and  a  slightly  foolish 
smile,  despite  his  seven  children.  But  his  wife  was  a  pas- 
sionate woman. 

"  I  see  you  've  kested  me,"  he  said,  smiling  rather 
vapidly. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Barker. 

The  newcomer  took  off  his  cap  and  his  big  woollen 
muffler.  His  nose  was  pointed  and  red. 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  're  cold,  Mr.  Wesson,"  said  Mrs. 
Morel. 

"  It 's  a  bit  nippy,"  he  replied. 

"  Then  come  to  the  fire." 

"  Nay,  I  s'll  do  where  I  am." 

Both  colliers  sat  away  back.  They  could  not  be  induced 
to  come  on  to  the  hearth.  The  hearth  is  sacred  to  the 
family. 

"  Go  thy  ways  i'  th'  arm-chair,"  cried  Morel  cheerily. 

"  Nay,  thank  yer ;   I  'm  very  nicely  here." 

"  Yes,  come,  of  course,"  insisted  Mrs.  Morel. 

He  rose  and  went  awkwardly.  He  sat  in  Morel's  arm- 
chair awkwardly.  It  was  too  great  a  familiarity.  But 
the  fire  made  him  blissfully  happy. 

"And  how's  that  chest  of  yours?"  demanded  Mrs. 
Morel. 


Strife  in  Love  247 

He  smiled  again,  with  his  blue  eyes  rather  sunny. 

"  Oh,  it 's  very  middlin',"  he  said. 

"  Wi'  a  rattle  in  it  like  a  kettle-drum,"  said  Barker 
shortly. 

"  T-t-t-t ! "  went  Mrs.  Morel  rapidly  with  her  tongue. 
"  Did  you  have  that  flannel  singlet  made?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  he  smiled. 

"  Then,  why  did  n't  you?  "  she  cried. 

"  It  '11  come,"  he  smiled. 

"  Ah,  an'  Doomsday !  "  exclaimed  Barker. 

Barker  and  Morel  were  both  impatient  of  Wesson. 
But,  then,  they  were  both  as  hard  as  nails,  physically. 

When  Morel  was  nearly  ready  he  pushed  the  bag  of 
money  to  Paul. 

"  Count  it,  boy,"  he  asked  humbly. 

Paul  impatiently  turned  from  his  books  and  pencil, 
tipped  the  bag  upside  down  on  the  table.  There  was  a 
five-pound  bag  of  silver,  sovereigns  and  loose  money.  He 
counted  quickly,  referred  to  the  checks  —  the  written 
papers  giving  amount  of  coal  —  put  the  money  in  order. 
Then  Barker  glanced  at  the  checks. 

Mrs.  Morel  went  upstairs,  and  the  three  men  came  to 
table.  Morel,  as  master  of  the  house,  sat  in  his  arm- 
chair, with  his  back  to  the  hot  fire.  The  two  butties  had 
cooler  seats.  None  of  them  counted  the  money. 

"  What  did  we  say  Simpson's  was  ?  "  asked  Morel ;  and 
the  butties  cavilled  for  a  minute  over  the  dayman's  earn- 
ings. Then  the  amount  was  put  aside. 

"An'BillNaylor's?" 

This  money  also  was  taken  from  the  pack. 

Then,  because  Wesson  lived  in  one  of  the  company's 
houses,  and  his  rent  had  been  deducted,  Morel  and  Barker 
took  four-and-six  each.  And  because  Morel's  coals  had 
come,  and  the  leading  was  stopped,  Barker  and  Wesson 
took  four  shillings  each.  Then  it  was  plain  sailing. 
Morel  gave  each  of  them  a  sovereign  till  there  were  no 
more  sovereigns;  each  half  a  crown  till  there  were  no 
more  half-crowns ;  each  a  shilling  till  there  were  no  more 


248  Sons  and  Lovers 

shillings.    If  there  was  anything  at  the  end  that  would  n't 
split,  Morel  took  it  and  stood  drinks. 

Then  the  three  men  rose  and  went.  Morel  scuttled  out 
of  the  house  before  his  wife  came  down.  She  heard  the 
door  close,  and  descended.  She  looked  hastily  at  the  bread 
in  the  oven.  Then,  glancing  on  the  table,  she  saw  her 
money  lying.  Paul  had  been  working  all  the  time.  But 
now  he  felt  his  mother  counting  the  week's  money,  and 
her  wrath  rising. 

"  T-t-t-t-t !  "  went  her  tongue. 

He  frowned.  He  could  not  work  when  she  was  cross. 
She  counted  again. 

"  A  measly  twenty-five  shillings ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  How  much  was  the  cheque  ?  " 

"  Ten  pounds  eleven,"  said  Paul  irritably.  He  dreaded 
what  was  coming. 

"  And  he  gives  me  a  scrattlin'  twenty-five,  an'  his  club 
this  week !  But  I  know  him.  He  thinks  because  you  're 
earning  he  need  n't  keep  the  house  any  longer.  No,  all 
he  has  to  do  with  his  money  is  to  guttle  it.  But  I  '11 
show  him !  " 

"  Oh,  mother,  don't !  "  cried  Paul. 

"Don't  what,  I  should  like  to  know?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Don't  carry  on  again.     I  can't  work." 

She  went  very  quiet. 

"  Yes,  it 's  all  very  well,"  she  said ;  "  but  how  do  you 
think  I  'm  going  to  manage?  " 

"  Well,  it  won't  make  it  any  better  to  whittle  about 
it." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  'd  do  if  you  had  it 
to  put  up  with." 

"  It  won't  be  long.  You  can  have  my  money.  Let  him 
go  to  hell." 

He  went  back  to  his  work,  and  she  tied  her  bonnet- 
strings  grimly.  When  she  was  fretted  he  could  not  bear 
it.  But  now  he  began  to  insist  on  her  recognizing  him. 

"  The  two  loaves  at  the  top,"  she  said,  "  will  be  done  in 
twenty  minutes.  Don't  forget  them." 


Strife  in  Love  249 

"  All  right,"  he  answered ;   and  she  went  to  market. 

He  remained  alone  working.  But  his  usual  intense 
concentration  became  unsettled.  He  listened  for  the 
yard-gate.  At  a  quarter-past  seven  came  a  low  knock, 
and  Miriam  entered. 

"All  alone?"  she  said. 

"  Yes." 

As  if  at  home,  she  took  off  her  tam-o'-shanter  and  her 
long  coat,  hanging  them  up.  It  gave  him  a  thrill.  This 
might  be  their  own  house,  his  and  hers.  Then  she  came 
back  and  peered  over  his  work. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  Still  design,  for  decorating  stuffs,  and  for  em- 
broidery." 

She  bent  short-sightedly  over  the  drawings. 

It  irritated  him  that  she  peered  so  into  everything  that 
was  his,  searching  him  out.  He  went  into  the  parlour  and 
returned  with  a  bundle  of  brownish  linen.  Carefully  un- 
folding it,  he  spread  it  on  the  floor.  It  proved  to  be  a 
curtain  or  portiere,  beautifully  stencilled  with  a  design 
on  roses. 

"  Ah,  how  beautiful !  "  she  cried. 

The  spread  cloth,  with  its  wonderful  reddish  roses  and 
dark  green  stems,  all  so  simple,  and  somehow  so  wicked- 
looking,  lay  at  her  feet.  She  went  on  her  knees  before  it, 
her  dark  curls  dropping.  He  saw  her  crouched  voluptu- 
ously before  his  work,  and  his  heart  beat  quickly.  Sud- 
denly she  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Why  does  it  seem  cruel  ?  "  she  asked. 

"What?" 

"  There  seems  a  feeling  of  cruelty  about  it,"  she  said. 

"  It 's  jolly  good,  whether  or  not,"  he  replied,  folding 
up  his  work  with  a  lover's  hands. 

She  rose  slowly,  pondering. 

"  And  what  will  you  do  with  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Send  it  to  Liberty's.  I  did  it  for  my  mother,  but  I 
think  she  'd  rather  have  the  money." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miriam.     He  had  spoken  with  a  touch  of 


250  Sons  and  Lovers 

bitterness,  and  Miriam  sympathized.  Money  would  have 
been  nothing  to  her. 

He  took  the  cloth  back  into  the  parlour.  When  he  re- 
turned, he  threw  to  Miriam  a  smaller  piece.  It  was  a 
cushion-cover  with  the  same  design. 

"  I  did  that  for  you,"  he  said. 

She  fingered  the  work  with  trembling  hands,  and  did  not 
speak.  He  became  embarrassed. 

"  By  Jove,  the  bread !  "  he  cried. 

He  took  the  top  loaves  out,  tapped  them  vigorously. 
They  were  done.  He  put  them  on  the  hearth  to  cool. 
Then  he  went  to  the  scullery,  wetted  his  hands,  scooped 
the  last  white  dough  out  of  the  punchion,  and  dropped 
it  in  a  baking-tin.  Miriam  was  still  bent  over  her  painted 
cloth.  He  stood  rubbing  the  bits  of  dough  from  his  hands. 

"You  do  like  it?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  with  her  dark  eyes  one  flame  of 
love.  He  laughed  uncomfortably.  Then  he  began  to  talk 
about  the  design.  There  was  for  him  the  most  intense 
pleasure  in  talking  about  his  work  to  Miriam.  All  his 
passion,  all  his  wild  blood,  went  into  this  intercourse  with 
her,  when  he  talked  and  conceived  his  work.  She  brought 
forth  to  him  his  imaginations.  She  did  not  understand, 
any  more  than  a  woman  understands  when  she  conceives 
a  child  in  her  womb.  But  this  was  life  for  her  and  for 
him. 

While  they  were  talking,  a  young  woman  of  about 
twenty-two,  small  and  pale,  hollow-eyed,  yet  with  a  re- 
lentless look  about  her,  entered  the  room.  She  was  a 
friend  at  the  Morels'. 

"  Take  your  things  off,"  said  Paul. 

"  No,  I  'm  not  stopping." 

She  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair  opposite  Paul  and 
Miriam,  who  were  on  the  sofa.  Miriam  moved  a  little 
farther  from  him.  The  room  was  hot,  with  a  scent  of 
new  bread.  Brown,  crisp  loaves  stood  on  the  hearth. 

"  I  should  n't  have  expected  to  see  you  here  to-night, 
Miriam  Leivers,"  said  Beatrice  wickedly. 


Strife  in  Love  251 

"  Why  not?  "  murmured  Miriam  huskily. 

"  Why,  let 's  look  at  your  shoes." 

Miriam  remained  uncomfortably  still. 

"  If  tha  doesna  tha  durs'na,"  laughed  Beatrice. 

Miriam  put  her  feet  from  under  her  dress.  Her  boots 
had  that  queer,  irresolute,  rather  pathetic  look  about 
them,  which  showed  how  self-conscious  and  self-mistrustful 
she  was.  And  they  were  covered  with  mud. 

"  Glory !  You  're  a  positive  muck-heap,"  exclaimed 
Beatrice.  "Who  cleans  your  boots?" 

"  I  clean  them  myself." 

"  Then  you  wanted  a  job,"  said  Beatrice.  "  It  would 
ha'  taken  a  lot  of  men  to  ha'  brought  me  down  here  to- 
night. But  love  laughs  at  sludge,  does  n't  it,  'Postle  my 
duck?  " 

"  Inter  alia"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  Lord !  are  you  going  to  spout  foreign  languages  ? 
What  does  it  mean,  Miriam?  " 

There  was  a  fine  sarcasm  in  the  last  question,  but 
Miriam  did  not  see  it. 

"  '  Among  other  things,'  I  believe,"  she  said  humbly. 

Beatrice  put  her  tongue  between  her  teeth  and  laughed 
wickedly. 

"  *  Among  other  things,'  'Postle?  "  she  repeated.  "  Do 
you  mean  love  laughs  at  mothers,  and  fathers,  and  sis- 
ters, and  brothers,  and  men  friends,  and  lady  friends,  and 
even  at  the  b'loved  himself?  " 

She  affected  a  great  innocence. 

"  In  fact,  it 's  one  big  smile,"  he  replied. 

"  Up  its  sleeve,  'Postle  Morel  —  you  believe  me,"  she 
said ;  and  she  went  off  into  another  burst  of  wicked,  silent 
laughter. 

Miriam  sat  silent,  withdrawn  into  herself.  Everyone 
of  Paul's  friends  delighted  in  taking  sides  against  her, 
and  he  left  her  in  the  lurch  —  seemed  almost  to  have  a 
sort  of  revenge  upon  her  then. 

"  Are  you  still  at  school?  "  asked  Miriam  of  Beatrice. 

"  Yes." 


Sons  and  Lovers 

"  You  've  not  had  your  notice,  then?  " 

"  I  expect  it  at  Easter." 

"  Is  n't  it  an  awful  shame,  to  turn  you  off  merely  be- 
cause you  didn't  pass  the  exam?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Beatrice  coldly. 

"  Agatha  says  you  're  as  good  as  any  teacher  any- 
where. It  seems  to  me  ridiculous.  I  wonder  why  you 
did  n't  pass." 

"  Short  of  brains,  eh,  'Postle?  "  said  Beatrice  briefly. 

"  Only  brains  to  bite  with,"  replied  Paul,  laughing. 

"  Nuisance !  "  she  cried ;  and,  springing  from  her  seat, 
she  rushed  and  boxed  his  ears.  She  had  beautiful  small 
hands.  He  held  her  wrists  while  she  wrestled  with  him. 
At  last  she  broke  free,  and  seized  two  handfuls  of  his  thick, 
dark  brown  hair,  which  she  shook. 

"  Beat !  "  he  said,  as  he  pulled  his  hair  straight  with 
his  fingers.  "  I  hate  you!  " 

She  laughed  with  glee. 

"  Mind !  "  she  said.    "  I  want  to  sit  next  to  you." 

"  I  'd  as  lief  be  neighbours  with  a  vixen,"  he  said,  never- 
theless making  place  for  her  between  him  and  Miriam. 

"  Did  it  ruffle  his  pretty  hair,  then !  "  she  cried ;  and, 
with  her  hair-comb,  she  combed  him  straight.  "  And  his 
nice  little  moustache !  "  she  exclaimed.  She  tilted  his  head 
back  and  combed  his  young  moustache.  "  It 's  a  wicked 
moustache,  'Postle,"  she  said.  "  It 's  a  red  for  danger. 
Have  you  got  any  of  those  cigarettes?  " 

He  pulled  his  cigarette-case  from  his  pocket.  Beatrice 
looked  inside  it. 

"  And  fancy  me  having  Connie's  last  cig,"  said  Beatrice, 
putting  the  thing  between  her  teeth.  He  held  a  lit  match 
to  her,  and  she  puffed  daintily. 

"  Thanks  so  much,  darling,"  she  said  mockingly. 

It  gave  her  a  wicked  delight. 

"  Don't  you  think  he  does  it  nicely,  Miriam? "  she 
asked. 

"  Oh,  very !  "  said  Miriam. 

He  took  a  cigarette  for  himself. 


Strife  in  Love  253 

"Light,  old  boy?  "  said  Beatrice,  tilting  her  cigarette 
at  him. 

He  bent  forward  to  her  to  light  his  cigarette  at  hers. 
She  was  winking  at  him  as  she  did  so.  Miriam  saw  his 
eyes  trembling  with  mischief,  and  his  full,  almost  sensual, 
mouth  quivering.  He  was  not  himself,  and  she  could  not 
bear  it.  As  he  was  now,  she  had  no  connection  with 
him;  she  might  as  well  not  have  existed.  She  saw  the 
cigarette  dancing  on  his  full  red  lips.  She  hated  his 
thick  hair  for  being  tumbled  loose  on  his  forehead. 

"  Sweet  boy !  "  said  Beatrice,  tipping  up  his  chin  and 
giving  him  a  little  kiss  on  the  cheek. 

"  I  s'll  kiss  thee  back,  Beat,"  he  said. 

"  Tha  wunna!"  she  giggled,  jumping  up  and  going 
away.  "Isn't  he  shameless,  Miriam?  " 

"  Quite,"  said  Miriam.  "  By  the  way,  are  n't  you  for- 
getting the  bread?  " 

"  By  Jove !  "  he  cried,  flinging  open  the  oven-door. 

Out  puffed  the  bluish  smoke  and  a  smell  of  burned 
bread. 

"  Oh,  golly !  "  cried  Beatrice,  coming  to  his  side.  He 
crouched  before  the  oven,  she  peered  over  his  shoulder. 
"  This  is  what  comes  of  the  oblivion  of  love,  my  boy." 

Paul  was  ruefully  removing  the  loaves.  One  was  burnt 
black  on  the  hot  side ;  another  was  hard  as  a  brick. 

"  Poor  mater!  "  said  Paul. 

"  You  want  to  grate  it,"  said  Beatrice.  "  Fetch  me  the 
nutmeg-grater. " 

She  arranged  the  bread  in  the  oven.  He  brought  the 
grater,  and  she  grated  the  bread  on  to  a  newspaper  on 
the  table.  He  set  the  doors  open  to  blow  away  the  smell 
of  burned  bread.  Beatrice  grated  away,  puffing  her 
cigarette,  knocking  the  charcoal  off  the  poor  loaf. 

"  My  word,  Miriam !  you  're  in  for  it  this  time,"  said 
Beatrice. 

"  I !  "  exclaimed  Miriam  in  amazement. 

"  You  'd  better  be  gone  when  his  mother  comes  in.  / 
know  why  King  Alfred  burned  the  cakes.  Now  I  see  it  I 


254  Sons  and  Lovers 

'Postle  would  fix  up  a  tale  about  his  work  making  him 
forget,  if  he  thought  it  would  wash.  If  that  old  woman 
had  come  in  a  bit  sooner,  she  'd  have  boxed  the  brazen 
thing's  ears  who  made  the  oblivion,  instead  of  poor 
Alfred's." 

She  giggled  as  she  scraped  the  loaf.  Even  Miriam 
laughed  in  spite  of  herself.  Paul  mended  the  fire  rue- 
fully. 

The  garden-gate  was  heard  to  bang. 

"  Quick !  "  cried  Beatrice,  giving  Paul  the  scraped  loaf. 
"  Wrap  it  up  in  a  damp  towel." 

Paul  disappeared  into  the  scullery.  Beatrice  hastily 
blew  her  scrapings  into  the  fire,  and  sat  down  innocently. 
Annie  came  bursting  in.  She  was  an  abrupt,  quite  smart 
young  woman.  She  blinked  in  the  strong  light. 

"  Smell  of  burning !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  It 's  the  cigarettes,"  replied  Beatrice  demurely. 

"  Where  's  Paul?  " 

Leonard  had  followed  Annie.  He  had  a  long  comic 
face  and  blue  eyes,  very  sad. 

"  I  suppose  he  's  left  you  to  settle  it  between  you,"  he 
said.  He  nodded  sympathetically  to  Miriam,  and  became 
gently  sarcastic  to  Beatrice. 

"  No,"  said  Beatrice,  "  he  's  gone  off  with  number  nine." 

"  I  just  met  number  five  inquiring  for  him,"  said 
Leonard. 

"  Yes  —  we  're  going  to  share  him  up  like  Solomon's 
baby,"  said  Beatrice. 

Annie  laughed. 

"  Oh,  ay,"  said  Leonard.  "  And  which  bit  should  you 
have?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Beatrice.  "  I  '11  let  all  the  others 
pick  first." 

"An'  you'd  have  the  leavings,  like?"  said  Leonard, 
twisting  up  a  comic  face. 

Annie  was  looking  in  the  oven.  Miriam  sat  ignored. 
Paul  entered. 

"  This  bread  's  a  fine  sight,  our  Paul,"  said  Annie. 


Strife  in  Love  255 

"  Then  you  should  stop  an'  look  after  it,"  said  Paul. 

"  You  mean  you  should  do  what  you  're  reckoning  to 
do,"  replied  Annie. 

"  He  should,  should  n't  he !  "  cried  Beatrice. 

"  I  s'd  think  he  'd  got  plenty  on  hand,"  said  Leonard. 

"  You  had  a  nasty  walk,  did  n't  you,  Miriam  ?  "  said 
Annie. 

"  Yes  —  but  I  'd  been  in  all  week  —  " 

"  And  you  wanted  a  bit  of  a  change,  like,"  insinuated 
Leonard  kindly. 

"  Well,  you  can't  be  stuck  in  the  house  for  ever,"  Annie 
agreed.  She  was  quite  amiable.  Beatrice  pulled  on  her 
coat,  and  went  out  with  Leonard  and  Annie.  She  would 
meet  her  own  boy. 

"  Don't  forget  that  bread,  our  Paul,"  cried  Annie. 
"  Good-night,  Miriam.  I  don't  think  it  will  rain." 

When  they  had  all  gone,  Paul  fetched  the  swathed  loaf, 
unwrapped  it,  and  surveyed  it  sadly. 

"  It 's  a  mess !  "  he  said. 

"  But,"  answered  Miriam  impatiently,  "  what  is  it,  after 
all  —  twopence  ha'penny." 

"  Yes,  but  —  it  's  the  mater's  precious  baking,  and 
she  '11  take  it  to  heart.  However,  it 's  no  good  bothering." 

He  took  the  loaf  back  into  the  scullery.  There  was  a 
little  distance  between  him  and  Miriam.  He  stood  bal- 
anced opposite  her  for  some  moments  considering,  thinking 
of  his  behaviour  with  Beatrice.  He  felt  guilty  inside  him- 
self, and  yet  glad.  For  some  inscrutable  reason  it  served 
Miriam  right.  He  was  not  going  to  repent.  She  won- 
dered what  he  was  thinking  of  as  he  stood  suspended. 
His  thick  hair  was  tumbled  over  his  forehead.  Why  might 
she  not  push  it  back  for  him,  and  remove  the  marks  of 
Beatrice's  comb?  Why  might  she  not  press  his  body  with 
her  two  hands?  It  looked  so  firm,  and  every  whit  living. 
And  he  would  let  other  girls,  why  not  her? 

Suddenly  he  started  into  life.  It  made  her  quiver  almost 
with  terror  as  he  quickly  pushed  the  hair  off  his  forehead 
and  came  towards  her. 


256  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Half-past  eight!  "  he  said.  "  We  'd  better  buck  up. 
Where  's  your  French?  " 

Miriam  shyly  and  rather  bitterly  produced  her  exer- 
cise-book. Every  week  she  wrote  for  him  a  sort  of  diary 
of  her  inner  life,  in  her  own  French.  He  had  found  this 
was  the  only  way  to  get  her  to  do  composition.  And  her 
diary  was  mostly  a  love-letter.  He  would  read  it  now; 
she  felt  as  if  her  soul's  history  were  going  to  be  desecrated 
by  him  in  his  present  mood.  He  sat  beside  her.  She 
watched  his  hand,  firm  and  warm,  rigorously  scoring  her 
work.  He  was  reading  only  the  French,  ignoring  her  soul 
that  was  there.  But  gradually  his  hand  forgot  its  work. 
He  read  in  silence,  motionless.  She  quivered. 

"  *  Ce  matin  les  oiseaux  m'ont  eveille,'  "  he  read.  "  *  II 
faisait  encore  un  crepuscule.  Mais  la  petite  fenetre  de  ma 
chambre,  etait  bleme,  et  puis,  jaune,  et  tous  les  oiseaux 
du  bois  eclaterent  dans  un  chanson  vif  et  resonnant.  Toute 
1'aube  tressaillit.  J'avais  reve  de  vous.  Est-ce  que  vous 
voyez  aussi  1'aube?  Les  oiseaux  m'eveillent  presque  tous 
les  matins,  et  toujours  il  y  a  quelque  chose  de  terreur 
dans  le  cri  des  grives.  II  est  si  clair  —  ' 

Miriam  sat  tremulous,  half  ashamed.  He  remained 
quite  still,  trying  to  understand.  He  only  knew  she  loved 
him.  He  was  afraid  of  her  love  for  him.  It  was  too  good 
for  him,  and  he  was  inadequate.  His  own  love  was  at 
fault,  not  hers.  Ashamed,  he  corrected  her  work,  humbly 
writing  above  her  words. 

"  Look,"  he  said  quietly,  "  the  past  participle  conju- 
gated with  avoir  agrees  with  the  direct  object  when  it 
precedes." 

She  bent  forward,  trying  to  see  and  to  understand. 
Her  free,  fine  curls  tickled  his  face.  He  started  as  if 
they  had  been  red  hot,  shuddering.  He  saw  her  peering 
forward  at  the  page,  her  red  lips  parted  piteously,  the 
black  hair  springing  in  fine  strands  across  her  tawny, 
ruddy  cheek.  She  was  coloured  like  a  pomegranate  for 
richness.  His  breath  came  short  as  he  watched  her.  Sud- 
denly she  looked  up  at  him.  Her  dark  eyes  were  naked 


Strife  in  Love  257 

with  their  love,  afraid,  and  yearning.  His  eyes,  too,  were 
dark,  and  they  hurt  her.  They  seemed  to  master  her. 
She  lost  all  her  self-control,  was  exposed  in  fear.  And 
he  knew,  before  he  could  kiss  her,  he  must  drive  some- 
thing out  of  himself.  And  a  touch  of  hate  for  her  crept 
back  again  into  his  heart.  He  returned  to  her  exercise. 

Suddenly  he  flung  down  the  pencil,  and  was  at  the 
oven  in  a  leap,  turning  the  bread.  For  Miriam  he  was 
too  quick.  She  started  violently,  and  it  hurt  her  with 
real  pain.  Even  the  way  he  crouched  before  the  oven 
hurt  her.  There  seemed  to  be  something  cruel  in  it, 
something  cruel  in  the  swift  way  he  pitched  the  bread  out 
of  the  tins,  caught  it  up  again.  If  only  he  had  been  gentle 
in  his  movements  she  would  have  felt  so  rich  and  warm. 
As  it  was,  she  was  hurt. 

He  returned  and  finished  the  exercise. 

"  You  Jve  done  well  this  week,"  he  said. 

She  saw  he  was  flattered  by  her  diary.  It  did  not 
repay  her  entirely. 

"  You  really  do  blossom  out  sometimes,"  he  said. 
"  You  ought  to  write  poetry." 

She  lifted  her  head  with  joy,  then  she  shook  it 
mistrustfully. 

"  I  don't  trust  myself,"  she  said. 

"  You  should  try !  " 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Shall  we  read,  or  is  it  too  late?  "  he  asked. 

"It  is  late  —  but  we  can  read  just  a  little,"  she 
pleaded. 

She  was  really  getting  now  the  food  for  her  life  during 
the  next  week.  He  made  her  copy  Baudelaire's  "  Le 
Balcon."  Then  he  read  it  for  her.  His  voice  was  soft 
and  caressing,  but  growing  almost  brutal.  He  had  a 
way  of  lifting  his  lips  and  showing  his  teeth,  passionately 
and  bitterly,  when  he  was  much  moved.  This  he  did 
now.  It  made  Miriam  feel  as  if  he  were  trampling  on 
her.  She  dared  not  look  at  him,  but  sat  with  her  head 
bowed.  She  could  not  understand  why  he  got  into  such 


258  Sons  and  Lovers 

a  tumult  and  fury.     It  made  her  wretched.     She  did  not 
like  Baudelaire,  on  the  whole  —  nor  Verlaine. 

"  Behold  her  singing  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  highland  lass." 

That  nourished  her  heart.  So  did  "  Fair  Ines." 
And— • 

"  It  was  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  pure, 
And  breathing  holy  quiet  like  a  nun." 

These  were  like  herself.  And  there  was  he,  saying  in 
his  throat  bitterly : 

"  Tu  te  rappeleras  la  beaute  des  caresses." 

The  poem  was  finished;  he  took  the  bread  out  of  the 
oven,  arranging  the  burnt  loaves  at  the  bottom  of  the 
panchion,  the  good  ones  at  the  top.  The  desiccated  loaf 
remained  swathed  up  in  the  scullery. 

"  Mater  need  n't  know  till  morning,"  he  said.  "  It 
won't  upset  her  so  much  then  as  at  night." 

Miriam  looked  in  the  bookcase,  saw  what  postcards 
and  letters  he  had  received,  saw  what  books  were  there. 
She  took  one  that  had  interested  him.  Then  he  turned 
down  the  gas,  and  they  set  off.  He  did  not  trouble  to 
lock  the  door. 

He  was  not  home  again  until  a  quarter  to  eleven. 
His  mother  was  seated  in  the  rocking-chair.  Annie,  with 
a  rope  of  hair  hanging  down  her  back,  remained  sitting 
on  a  low  stool  before  the  fire,  her  elbows  on  her  knees, 
gloomily.  On  the  table  stood  the  offending  loaf  un- 
swathed. Paul  entered  rather  breathless.  No  one  spoke. 
His  mother  was  reading  the  little  local  newspaper.  He 
took  off  his  coat,  and  went  to  sit  down  on  the  sofa.  His 
mother  moved  curtly  aside  to  let  him  pass.  No  one 
spoke.  He  was  very  uncomfortable.  For  some  minutes 
he  sat  pretending  to  read  a  piece  of  paper  he  found  on 
the  table.  Then — 

"  I  forgot  that  bread,  mother,"  he  said. 

There  was  no  answer  from  either  woman. 


Strife  in  Love  259 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  it 's  only  twopence  ha'penny.  I 
can  pay  you  for  that." 

Being  angry  he  put  three  pennies  on  the  table,  and 
slid  them  towards  his  mother.  She  turned  away  her  head. 
Her  mouth  was  shut  tightly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Annie,  "  you  don't  know  how  badly  my 
mother  is !  " 

The  girl  sat  staring  glumly  into  the  fire. 

"Why  is  she  badly?"  asked  Paul,  in  his  overbearing 
way. 

"  Well !  "  said  Annie.     "  She  could  scarcely  get  home." 

He  looked  closely  at  his  mother.     She  looked  ill. 

"  Why  could  you  scarcely  get  home  ?  "  he  asked  her, 
still  sharply.  She  would  not  answer. 

"  I  found  her  as  white  as  a  sheet  sitting  here,"  said 
Annie,  with  a  suggestion  of  tears  in  her  voice. 

"  Well,  why?  "  insisted  Paul.  His  brows  were  knit- 
ting, his  eyes  dilating  passionately. 

"  It  was  enough  to  upset  anybody,"  said  Mrs.  Morel, 
"  hugging  those  parcels  —  meat,  and  green-groceries,  and 
a  pair  of  curtains  —  " 

"  Well,  why  did  you  hug  them ;  you  need  n't  have 
done." 

"Then  who  would?" 

"  Let  Annie  fetch  the  meat." 

"  Yes,  and  I  would  fetch  the  meat,  but  how  was  I 
to  know?  You  were  off  with  Miriam,  instead  of  being  in 
when  my  mother  came." 

"  And  what  was  the  matter  with  you?  "  asked  Paul  of 
his  mother. 

"  I  suppose  it 's  my  heart,"  she  replied.  Certainly 
she  looked  bluish  round  the  mouth. 

"  And  have  you  felt  it  before?  " 

"  Yes  —  often  enough." 

"  Then  why  have  n't  you  told  me  ?  —  and  why  have  n't 
you  seen  a  doctor  ?  " 

Mrs.  Morel  shifted  in  her  chair,  angry  with  him  for 
his  hectoring. 


260  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  You  'd  never  notice  anything,"  said  Annie.  "  You  're 
too  eager  to  be  off  with  Miriam." 

"  Oh,  am  I  —  and  any  worse  than  you  with  Leonard?  " 

"  /  was  in  at  a  quarter  to  ten." 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  for  a  time. 

"  I  should  have  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Morel  bitterly, 
"  that  she  would  n't  have  occupied  you  so  entirely  as  to 
burn  a  whole  ovenful  of  bread." 

"  Beatrice  was  here  as  well  as  she." 

"  Very  likely.     But  we  know  why  the  bread  is  spoilt." 

"Why?  "he  flashed. 

"  Because  you  were  engrossed  with  Miriam,"  replied 
Mrs.  Morel  hotly. 

"  Oh,  very  well  —  then  it  was  not!  "  he  replied  angrily. 

He  was  distressed  and  wretched.  Seizing  a  paper,  he 
began  to  read.  Annie,  her  blouse  unfastened,  her  long 
ropes  of  hair  twisted  into  a  plait,  went  up  to  bed,  bid- 
ding him  a  very  curt  good-night. 

Paul  sat  pretending  to  read.  He  knew  his  mother 
wanted  to  upbraid  him.  He  also  wanted  to  know  what 
had  made  her  ill,  for  he  was  troubled.  So,  instead  of 
running  away  to  bed,  as  he  would  have  liked  to  do,  he 
sat  and  waited.  There  was  a  tense  silence.  The  clock 
ticked  loudly. 

"  You  'd  better  go  to  bed  before  your  father  comes 
in,"  said  the  mother  harshly.  "  And  if  you  're  going 
to  have  anything  to  eat,  you  'd  better  get  it." 

"  I  don't  want  anything." 

It  was  his  mother's  custom  to  bring  him  some  trifle  for 
supper  on  Friday  night,  the  night  of  luxury  for  the 
colliers.  He  was  too  angry  to  go  and  find  it  in  the  pantry 
this  night.  This  insulted  her. 

"  If  I  wanted  you  to  go  to  Selby  on  Friday  night,  I 
can  imagine  the  scene,"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "  But  you  're 
never  too  tired  to  go  if  she  will  come  for  you.  Nay,  you 
neither  want  to  eat  nor  drink  then." 

"  I  can't  let  her  go  alone." 

"  Can't  you  ?    And  why  does  she  come  ?  " 


Strife  in  Love  261 

"  Not  because  I  ask  her." 

"  She  does  n't  come  without  you  want  her  —  " 

"  Well,  what  if  I  do  want  her  —  "  he  replied. 

"  Why,  nothing  if  it  was  sensible  or  reasonable.  But 
to  go  trapesing  up  there  miles  and  miles  in  the  mud, 
coming  home  at  midnight,  and  got  to  go  to  Nottingham 
in  the  morning  —  " 

"  If  I  hadn't,  you  'd  be  just  the  same." 

"  Yes,  I  should,  because  there  's  no  sense  in  it.  Is  she 
so  fascinating  that  you  must  follow  her  all  that  way?  " 
Mrs.  Morel  was  bitterly  sarcastic.  She  sat  still,  with 
averted  face,  stroking  with  a  rhythmic,  jerked  movement 
the  black  sateen  of  her  apron.  It  was  a  movement  that 
hurt  Paul  to  see. 

"  I  do  like  her,"  he  said,  "  but  —  " 

"  Like  her !  "  said  Mrs.  Morel,  in  the  same  biting  tones. 
"  It  seems  to  me  you  like  nothing  and  nobody  else. 
There 's  neither  Annie,  nor  me,  nor  anvone  now  for 
you." 

"  What  nonsense,  mother  —  you  know  I  don't  love 
her  —  I  —  I  tell  you  I  don't  love  her  —  she  does  n't  even 
walk  with  my  arm,  because  I  don't  want  her  to." 

"  Then  why  do  you  fly  to  her  so  often !  " 

"  I  do  like  to  talk  to  her  —  I  never  said  I  did  n't.  But 
I  don't  love  her." 

"  Is  there  nobody  else  to  talk  to?  " 

"  Not  about  the  things  we  talk  of.  There  's  lots  of 
things  that  you  're  not  interested  in,  that  —  " 

"What  things?" 

Mrs.  Morel  was  so  intense  that  Paul  began  to  pant. 

"  Why  —  painting  —  and  books.  You  don't  care 
about  Herbert  Spencer." 

"  No,"  was  the  sad  reply.  "  And  you  won't  at  my 
age." 

"  Well,  but  I  do  now  —  and  Miriam  does  —  " 

"  And  how  do  you  know,"  Mrs.  Morel  flashed  defiantly, 
"  that  I  should  n't?  Do  you  ever  try  me?  " 

"  But  you  don't,  mother,  you  know  you  don't   care 


Sons  and  Lovers 

whether  a  picture  's  decorative  or  not ;  you  don't  care 
what  manner  it  is  in." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  don't  care?  Do  you  ever  try 
me?  Do  you  ever  talk  to  me  about  these  things,  to 
try?" 

"  But  it 's  not  that  that  matters  to  you,  mother,  you 
know  it 's  not." 

"  What  is  it,  then  —  what  is  it,  then,  that  matters  to 
me?  "  she  flashed.  He  knitted  his  brows  with  pain. 

"  You  're  old,  mother,  and  we  're  young." 

He  only  meant  that  the  interests  of  her  age  were  not 
the  interests  of  his.  But  he  realized  the  moment  he  had 
spoken  that  he  had  said  the  wrong  thing. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  well  —  I  am  old.  And  therefore  I 
may  stand  aside;  I  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  you. 
You  only  want  me  to  wait  on  you  —  the  rest  is  for 
Miriam." 

He  could  not  bear  it.  Instinctively  he  realized  that  he 
was  life  to  her.  And,  after  all,  she  was  the  chief  thing  to 
him,  the  only  supreme  thing. 

"  You  know  it  is  n't,  mother,  you  know  it  is  n't !  " 

She  was  moved  to  pity  by  his  cry. 

"  It  looks  a  great  deal  like  it,"  she  said,  half  putting 
aside  her  despair. 

"  No,  mother  —  I  really  don't  love  her.  I  talk  to  her, 
but  I  want  to  come  home  to  you." 

He  had  taken  off  his  collar  and  tie,  and  rose,  bare- 
throated,  to  go  to  bed.  As  he  stooped  to  kiss  his  mother, 
she  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  hid  her  face  on  his 
shoulder,  and  cried,  in  a  whimpering  voice,  so  unlike  her 
own  that  he  writhed  in  agony: 

"I  can't  bear  it.  I  could  let  another  woman  —  but 
not  her.  She  'd  leave  me  no  room,  not  a  bit  of  room  —  " 

And  immediately  he  hated  Miriam  bitterly. 

"  And  I  've  never  —  you  know,  Paul  —  I  've  never  had 
a  husband  —  not  really  —  " 

He  stroked  his  mother's  hair,  and  his  mouth  was  on 
her  throat. 


Strife  in  Love  263 

"  And  she  exults  so  in  taking  you  from  me  —  she  's 
not  like  ordinary  girls." 

"  Well,  I  don't  love  her,  mother,"  he  murmured,  bow- 
ing his  head  and  hiding  his  eyes  on  her  shoulder  in  misery. 
His  mother  kissed  him  a  long,  fervent  kiss. 

"  My  boy !  "  she  said,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  pas- 
sionate love. 

Without  knowing,  he  gently  stroked  her  face. 

"  There,"  said  his  mother,  "  now  go  to  bed.  You  '11 
be  so  tired  in  the  morning."  As  she  was  speaking  she 
heard  her  husband  coming.  "  There  's  your  father  — 
now  go."  Suddenly  she  looked  at  him  almost  as  if  in 
fear.  "  Perhaps  I  'm  selfish.  If  you  want  her,  take  her, 
my  boy." 

His  mother  looked  so  strange,  Paul  kissed  her, 
trembling. 

"Ha  — mother!"  he  said  softly. 

Morel  came  in,  walking  unevenly.  His  hat  was  over 
one  corner  of  his  eye.  He  balanced  in  the  doorway. 

"At  your  mischief  again?  "  he  said  venomously. 

Mrs.  Morel's  emotion  turned  into  sudden  hate  of  the 
drunkard  who  had  come  in  thus  upon  her. 

"  At  any  rate,  it  is  sober,"  she  said. 

"  H'm  —  h'm !  h'm  —  h'm !  "  he  sneered.  He  went  into 
the  passage,  hung  up  his  hat  and  coat.  Then  they  heard 
him  go  down  three  steps  to  the  pantry.  He  returned  with 
a  piece  of  pork-pie  in  his  fist.  It  was  what  Mrs.  Morel 
had  bought  for  her  son. 

"  Nor  was  that  bought  for  you.  If  you  can  give  me 
no  more  than  twenty-five  shillings,  I  'm  sure  I  'm  not 
going  to  buy  you  pork-pie  to  stuff,  after  you  've  swilled 
a  bellyful  of  beer." 

"  Wha-at  —  wha-at !  "  snarled  Morel,  toppling  in  his 
balance.  "Wha-at  —  not  for  me?"  He  looked  at  the 
piece  of  meat  and  crust,  and  suddenly,  in  a  vicious  spurt 
of  temper,  flung  it  into  the  fire. 

Paul  started  to  his  feet. 

"  Waste  your  own  stuff !  "  he  cried. 


264  Sons  and  Lovers 

"What  —  what!"  suddenly  shouted  Morel,  jumping 
up  and  clenching  his  fist.  "  I  '11  show  yer,  yer  young 
jockey! " 

"  All  right !  "  said  Paul  viciously,  putting  his  head  on 
one  side.  "  Show  me !  " 

He  would  at  that  moment  dearly  have  loved  to  have 
a  smack  at  something.  Morel  was  half  crouching,  fists 
up,  ready  to  spring.  The  young  man  stood,  smiling  with 
his  lips. 

"  Ussha ! "  hissed  the  father,  swiping  round  with  a 
great  stroke  just  past  his  son's  face.  He  dared  not,  even 
though  so  close,  really  touch  the  young  man,  but  swerved 
an  inch  away. 

"  Right !  "  said  Paul,  his  eyes  upon  the  side  of  his 
father's  mouth,  where  in  another  instant  his  fist  would 
have  hit.  He  ached  for  that  stroke.  But  he  heard  a 
faint  moan  from  behind.  His  mother  was  deadly  pale, 
dark  at  the  mouth.  Morel  was  dancing  up  to  deliver 
another  blow. 

"  Father !  "  said  Paul,  so  that  the  word  rang. 

Morel  started,  and  stood  at  attention. 

"Mother!"  moaned  the  boy.     "Mother!" 

She  began  to  struggle  with  herself.  Her  open  eyes 
watched  him,  although  she  could  not  move.  Gradually 
she  was  coming  to  herself.  He  laid  her  down  on  the  sofa, 
and  ran  upstairs  for  a  little  whisky,  which  at  last  she 
could  sip.  The  tears  were  hopping  down  his  face.  As 
he  kneeled  in  front  of  her  he  did  not  cry,  but  the  tears 
ran  down  his  face  quickly.  Morel,  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  room,  sat  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  glaring 
across. 

"  What 's  a-matter  with  'er?  "  he  asked. 

"Faint!"   replied  Paul. 

"H'm!" 

The  elderly  man  began  to  unlace  his  boots.  He  stum- 
bled off  to  bed.  His  last  fight  was  fought  in  that 
home. 

Paul  kneeled  there,  stroking  his  mother's  hand. 


Strife  in  Love  £65 

"  Don't  be  poorly,  mother  —  don't  be  poorly !  "  he  said 
time  after  time. 

"  It  's  nothing,  my  boy,"  she  murmured. 

At  last  he  rose,  fetched  in  a  large  piece  of  coal,  and 
raked  the  fire.  Then  he  cleared  the  room,  put  everything 
straight,  laid  the  things  for  breakfast,  and  brought  his 
mother's  candle. 

"  Can  you  go  to  bed,  mother?  " 

"  Yes,  I  '11  come." 

"  Sleep  with  Annie,  mother,  not  with  him." 

"  No.     I  '11  sleep  in  my  own  bed." 

"  Don't  sleep  with  him,  mother." 

"  I  '11  sleep  in  my  own  bed." 

She  rose,  and  he  turned  out  the  gas,  then  followed  her 
closely  upstairs,  carrying  her  candle.  On  the  landing  he 
kissed  her  close. 

"  Good-night,  mother." 

"  Good-night !  "  she  said. 

He  pressed  his  face  upon  the  pillow  in  a  fury  of 
misery.  And  yet,  somewhere  in  his  soul,  he  was  at  peace 
because  he  still  loved  his  mother  best.  It  was  the  bitter 
peace  of  resignation. 

The  efforts  of  his  father  to  conciliate  him  next  day 
were  a  great  humiliation  to  him. 

Everybody  tried  to  forget  the  scene. 


CHAPTER    IX 

DEFEAT    OF    MIRIAM 

PAUL  was  dissatisfied  with  himself  and  with  every- 
thing. The  deepest  of  his  love  belonged  to  his 
mother.  When  he  felt  he  had  hurt  her,  or  wounded  his 
love  for  her,  he  could  not  bear  it.  Now  it  was  spring, 
and  there  was  battle  between  him  and  Miriam.  This  year 
he  had  a  good  deal  against  her.  She  was  vaguely  aware 
of  it.  The  old  feeling  that  she  was  to  be  a  sacrifice  to 
this  love,  which  she  had  had  when  she  prayed,  was  min- 
gled in  all  her  emotions.  She  did  not  at  the  bottom 
believe  she  ever  would  have  him.  She  did  not  believe  in 
herself  primarily:  doubted  whether  she  could  ever  be 
what  he  would  demand  of  her.  Certainly  she  never  saw 
herself  living  happily  through  a  lifetime  with  him.  She 
saw  tragedy,  sorrow,  and  sacrifice  ahead.  And  in  sacri- 
fice she  was  proud,  in  renunciation  she  was  strong,  for 
she  did  not  trust  herself  to  support  everyday  life.  She 
was  prepared  for  the  big  things  and  the  deep  things,  like 
tragedy.  It  was  the  sufficiency  of  the  small  day-life  she 
could  not  trust. 

The  Easter  holidays  began  happily.  Paul  was  his  own 
frank  self.  Yet  she  felt  it  would  go  wrong.  On  the 
Sunday  afternoon  she  stood  at  her  bedroom  window, 
looking  across  at  the  oak-trees  of  the  wood,  in  whose 
branches  a  twilight  was  tangled,  below  the  bright  sky  of 
the  afternoon.  Grey-green  rosettes  of  honeysuckle  leaves 
hung  before  the  window,  some  already,  she  fancied,  show- 
ing bud.  It  was  spring,  which  she  loved  and  dreaded. 

Hearing  the  clack  of  the  gate  she  stood  in  suspense. 
It  was  a  bright  grey  day.  Paul  came  into  the  yard  with 
his  bicycle,  which  glittered  as  he  walked.  Usually  he 


Defeat  of  Miriam  267 

rang  his  bell  and  laughed  towards  the  house.  To-day 
he  walked  with  shut  lips  and  cold,  cruel  bearing,  that  had 
something  of  a  slouch  and  a  sneer  in  it.  She  knew  him 
well  by  now,  and  could  tell  from  that  keen-looking,  aloof 
young  body  of  his  what  was  happening  inside  him. 
There  was  a  cold  correctness  in  the  way  he  put  his 
bicycle  in  its  place,  that  made  her  heart  sink. 

She  came  downstairs  nervously.  She  was  wearing  a 
new  net  blouse  that  she  thought  became  her.  It  had  a 
high  collar  with  a  tiny  ruff,  reminding  her  of  Mary, 
Queen  of  Scots,  and  making  her,  she  thought,  look  won- 
derfully a  woman,  and  dignified.  At  twenty  she  was 
full-breasted  and  luxuriously  formed.  Her  face  was  still 
like  a  soft  rich  mask,  unchangeable.  But  her  eyes,  once 
lifted,  were  wonderful.  She  was  afraid  of  him.  He  would 
notice  her  new  blouse. 

He,  being  in  a  hard,  ironical  mood,  was  entertaining 
the  family  to  a  description  of  a  service  given  in  the  Primi- 
tive Methodist  Chapel,  conducted  by  one  of  the  well- 
known  preachers  of  the  sect.  He  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  his  mobile  face,  with  the  eyes  that  could  be  so 
beautiful,  shining  with  tenderness  or  dancing  with  laugh- 
ter, now  taking  on  one  expression  and  then  another,  in 
imitation  of  various  people  he  was  mocking.  His  mock- 
ery always  hurt  her;  it  was  too  near  the  reality.  He 
was  too  clever  and  cruel.  She  felt  that  when  his  eyes 
were  like  this,  hard  with  mocking  hate,  he  would  spare 
neither  himself  nor  anybody  else.  But  Mrs.  Leivers  waa 
wiping  her  eyes  with  laughter,  and  Mr.  Leivers,  just 
awake  from  his  Sunday  nap,  was  rubbing  his  head  in 
amusement.  The  three  brothers  sat  with  ruffled,  sleepy 
appearance  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  giving  a  guffaw  from 
time  to  time.  The  whole  family  loved  a  "  take-off  "  more 
than  anything. 

He  took  no  notice  of  Miriam.  Later,  she  saw  him  re- 
mark her  new  blouse,  saw  that  the  artist  approved,  but 
it  won  from  him  not  a  spark  of  warmth.  She  was  ner- 
vous, could  hardly  reach  the  teacups  from  the  shelves. 


268  Sons  and  Lovers 

When  the  men  went  out  to  milk,  she  ventured  to  address 
him  personally. 

"  You  were  late,"  she  said. 

"Was  I?"  he  answered. 

There  was  silence  for  a  while. 

"  Was  it  rough  riding?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  did  n't  notice  it." 

She  continued  quickly  to  lay  the  table.  When  she  had 
finished  — 

"  Tea  won't  be  for  a  few  minutes.  Will  you  come 
and  look  at  the  daffodils?  "  she  said. 

He  rose  without  answering.  They  went  out  into  the 
back  garden  under  the  budding  damson-trees.  The  hills 
and  the  sky  were  clean  and  cold.  Everything  looked 
washed,  rather  hard.  Miriam  glanced  at  Paul.  He  was 
pale  and  impassive.  It  seemed  cruel  to  her  that  his  eyes 
and  brows,  which  she  loved,  could  look  so  hurting. 

"  Has  the  wind  made  you  tired?  "  she  asked.  She 
detected  an  underneath  feeling  of  weariness  about  him. 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  he  answered. 

"  It  must  be  rough  on  the  road  —  the  wood  moans  so." 

"  You  can  see  by  the  clouds  it 's  a  south-west  wind ; 
that  helps  me  here." 

"  You  see,  I  don't  cycle,  so  I  don't  understand,"  she 
murmured. 

"  Is  there  need  to  cycle  to  know  that  ?  "  he  said. 

She  thought  his  sarcasms  were  unnecessary.  They 
went  forward  in  silence.  Round  the  wild,  tussocky  lawn 
at  the  back  of  the  house  was  a  thorn  hedge,  under  which 
daffodils  were  craning  forward  from  among  their  sheaves 
of  grey-green  blades.  The  cheeks  of  the  flowers  were 
greenish  with  cold.  But  still  some  had  burst,  and  their 
gold  ruffled  and  glowed.  Miriam  went  on  her  knees  before 
one  cluster,  took  a  wild-looking  daffodil  between  her 
hands,  turned  up  its  face  of  gold  to  her,  and  bowed  down, 
caressing  it  with  her  mouth  and  cheeks  and  brow.  He 
stood  aside,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  watching  her. 
One  after  another  she  turned  up  to  him  the  faces  of  the 


Defeat  of  Miriam  269 

yellow,  bursten  flowers  appealingly,  fondling  them  lav- 
ishly all  the  while. 

"  Are  n't  they  magnificent?  "  she  murmured. 

"  Magnificent !  it  's  a  bit  thick  —  they  're  pretty !  " 

She  bowed  again  to  her  flowers  at  his  censure  of  her 
praise.  He  watched  her  crouching,  sipping  the  flowers 
with  fervid  kisses. 

"  Why  must  you  always  be  fondling  things ! "  he  said 
irritably. 

"  But  I  love  to  touch  them,"  she  replied,  hurt. 

"  Can  you  never  like  things  without  clutching  them  as 
if  you  wanted  to  pull  the  heart  out  of  them?  Why  don't 
you  have  a  bit  more  restraint,  or  reserve,  or  something?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  full  of  pain,  then  continued 
slowly  to  stroke  her  lips  against  a  ruffled  flower.  Their 
scent,  as  she  smelled  it,  was  so  much  kinder  than  he;  it 
almost  made  her  cry. 

"  You  wheedle  the  soul  out  of  things,"  he  said.  "  I 
would  never  wheedle  —  at  any  rate,  I  'd  go  straight." 

He  scarcely  knew  what  he  was  saying.  These  things 
came  from  him  mechanically.  She  looked  at  him.  His 
body  seemed  one  weapon,  firm  and  hard  against  her. 

"  You  're  always  begging  things  to  love  you,"  he  said, 
"  as  if  you  were  a  beggar  for  love.  Even  the  flowers,  you 
have  to  fawn  on  them  —  " 

Rhythmically,  Miriam  was  swaying  and  stroking  the 
flower  with  her  mouth,  inhaling  the  scent  which  ever  after 
made  her  shudder  as  it  came  to  her  nostrils. 

u  You  don't  want  to  love  —  your  eternal  and  abnormal 
craving  is  to  be  loved.  You  are  n't  positive,  you  're 
negative.  You  absorb,  absorb,  as  if  you  must  fill  your- 
self up  with  love,  because  you  've  got  a  shortage  some- 
where." 

She  was  stunned  by  his  cruelty,  and  did  not  hear.  He 
had  not  the  faintest  notion  of  what  he  was  saying.  It 
was  as  if  his  fretted,  tortured  soul,  run  hot  by  thwarted 
passion,  jetted  off  these  sayings  like  sparks  from  electri- 
city. She  did  not  grasp  anything  he  said.  She  only  sat 


270  Sons  and  Lovers 

crouched  beneath  his  cruelty  and  his  hatred  of  her.  She 
never  realized  in  a  flash.  Over  everything  she  brooded 
and  brooded. 

After  tea  he  stayed  with  Edgar  and  the  brothers, 
taking  no  notice  of  Miriam.  She,  extremely  unhappy  on 
this  looked-for  holiday,  waited  for  him.  And  at  last  he 
yielded  and  came  to  her.  She  was  determined  to  track 
this  mood  of  his  to  its  origin.  She  counted  it  not  much 
more  than  a  mood. 

"  Shall  we  go  through  the  wood  a  little  way?  "  she 
asked  him,  knowing  he  never  refused  a  direct  request. 

They  went  down  to  the  warren.  On  the  middle  path 
they  passed  a  trap,  a  narrow  horseshoe  hedge  of  small 
fir-boughs,  baited  with  the  guts  of  a  rabbit.  Paul  glanced 
at  it  frowning.  She  caught  his  eye. 

"  Is  n't  it  dreadful?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know !  Is  it  worse  than  a  weasel  with  its 
teeth  in  a  rabbit's  throat?  One  weasel  or  many  rabbits? 
One  or  the  other  must  go !  " 

He  was  taking  the  bitterness  of  life  badly.  She  was 
rather  sorry  for  him. 

"  We  will  go  back  to  the  house,"  he  said.  "  I  don't 
want  to  walk  out." 

They  went  past  the  lilac-tree,  whose  bronze  leaf-buds 
were  coming  unfastened.  Just  a  fragment  remained  of 
the  haystack,  a  monument  squared  and  brown,  like  a 
pillar  of  stone.  There  was  a  little  bed  of  hay  from  the 
last  cutting. 

"  Let  us  sit  here  a  minute,"  said  Miriam. 

He  sat  down  against  his  will,  resting  his  back  against 
the  hard  wall  of  hay.  They  faced  the  amphitheatre  of 
round  hills  that  glowed  with  sunset,  tiny  white  farms 
standing  out,  the  meadows  golden,  the  woods  dark  and 
yet  luminous,  tree-tops  folded  over  tree-tops,  distinct  in 
the  distance.  The  evening  had  cleared,  and  the  east  was 
tender  with  a  magenta  flush  under  which  the  land  lay 
still  and  rich. 

"  Is  n't  it  beautiful?  "  she  pleaded. 


Defeat  of  Miriam  271 

But  he  only  scowled.  He  would  rather  have  had  it 
ugly  just  then. 

At  that  moment  a  big  bull-terrier  came  rushing  up, 
open-mouthed,  pranced  his  two  paws  on  the  youth's  shoul- 
ders, licking  his  face.  Paul  drew  back,  laughing.  Bill 
was  a  great  relief  to  him.  He  pushed  the  dog  aside,  but 
it  came  leaping  back. 

"  Get  out,"  said  the  lad,  "  or  I  '11  dot  thee  one." 

But  the  dog  was  not  to  be  pushed  away.  So  Paul  had 
a  little  battle  with  the  creature,  pitching  poor  Bill  away 
from  him,  who,  however,  only  floundered  tumultuously 
back  again,  wild  with  joy.  The  two  fought  together,  the 
man  laughing  grudgingly,  the  dog  grinning  all  over. 
Miriam  watched  them.  There  was  something  pathetic 
about  the  man.  He  wanted  so  badly  to  love,  to  be  tender. 
The  rough  way  he  bowled  the  dog  over  was  really  loving. 
Bill  got  up,  panting  with  happiness,  his  brown  eyes  roll- 
ing in  his  white  face,  and  lumbered  back  again.  He 
adored  Paul.  The  lad  frowned. 

"  Bill,  I  've  had  enough  o'  thee,"  he  said. 

But  the  dog  only  stood  with  two  heavy  paws,  that 
quivered  with  love,  upon  his  thigh,  and  flickered  a  red 
tongue  at  him.  He  drew  back. 

"  No,"  he  said  —  "  no  —  I  've  had  enough." 

And  in  a  minute  the  dog  trotted  off  happily,  to  vary 
the  fun. 

He  remained  staring  miserably  across  at  the  hills, 
whose  still  beauty  he  begrudged.  He  wanted  to  go  and 
cycle  with  Edgar.  Yet  he  had  not  the  courage  to  leave 
Miriam. 

"  Why  are  you  sad?  "  she  asked  humbly. 

"  I  'm  not  sad ;  why  should  I  be,"  he  answered.  "  I  'm 
only  normal." 

She  wondered  why  he  always  claimed  to  be  normal  when 
he  was  disagreeable. 

"But  what  is  the  matter?"  she  pleaded,  coaxing  him 
soothingly. 

"Nothing!" 


Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Nay !  "  she  murmured. 

He  picked  up  a  stick  and  began  to  stab  the  earth 
with  it. 

"  You  'd  far  better  not  talk,"  he  said. 

"  But  I  wish  to  know  —  "  she  replied. 

He  laughed  resentfully. 

"  You  always  do,"  he  said. 

66  It 's  not  fair  to  me,"  she  murmured. 

He  thrust,  thrust,  thrust  at  the  ground  with  the 
pointed  stick,  digging  up  little  clods  of  earth  as  if  he 
were  in  a  fever  of  irritation.  She  gently  and  firmly  laid 
her  hand  on  his  wrist. 

"  Don't !  "  she  said.     "  Put  it  away." 

He  flung  the  stick  into  the  currant-bushes,  and  leaned 
back.  Now  he  was  bottled  up. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  pleaded  softly. 

He  lay  perfectly  still,  only  his  eyes  alive,  and  they 
full  of  torment. 

"  You  know,"  he  said  at  length,  rather  wearily  — 
"  you  know  —  we  'd  better  break  off." 

It  was  what  she  dreaded.  Swiftly  everything  seemed 
to  darken  before  her  eyes. 

"  Why!  "  she  murmured.     "  What  has  happened?  " 

"  Nothing  has  happened.  We  only  realize  where  we 
are.  It 's  no  good  —  " 

She  waited  in  silence,  sadly,  patiently.  It  was  no  good 
being  impatient  with  him.  At  any  rate,  he  would  tell  her 
now  what  ailed  him. 

"  We  agreed  on  friendship,"  he  went  on  in  a  dull, 
monotonous  voice.  "  How  often  have  we  agreed  for 
friendship !  And  yet  —  it  neither  stops  there,  nor  gets 
anywhere  else." 

He  was  silent  again.  She  brooded.  What  did  he 
mean?  He  was  so  wearying.  There  was  something  he 
would  not  yield.  Yet  she  must  be  patient  with  him. 

"  I  can  only  give  friendship  —  it  's  all  I  'm  capable  of 
—  it 's  a  flaw  in  my  make-up.  The  thing  overbalances  to 
one  side  —  I  hate  a  toppling  balance.  Let  us  have  done." 


Defeat  of  Miriam  273 

There  was  warmth  of  fury  in  his  last  phrases.  He 
meant  she  loved  him  more  than  he  her.  Perhaps  he 
could  not  love  her.  Perhaps  she  had  not  in  herself  that 
which  he  wanted.  It  was  the  deepest  motive  of  her  soul, 
this  self-mistrust.  It  was  so  deep  she  dared  neither  realize 
nor  acknowledge  it.  Perhaps  she  was  sufficient.  Like  an 
infinitely  subtle  shame,  it  kept  her  always  back.  If  it 
were  so,  she  would  do  without  him.  She  would  never  let 
herself  want  him.  She  would  merely  see. 

"But  what  has  happened?  "  she  said. 

"  Nothing  —  it 's  all  in  myself  —  it  only  comes  out 
just  now.  We  're  always  like  this  towards  Easter- 
time." 

He  grovelled  so  helplessly,  she  pitied  him.  At  least 
she  never  floundered  in  such  a  pitiable  way.  After  all, 
it  was  he  who  was  chiefly  humiliated. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  she  asked  him. 

"  Why  —  I  must  n't  come  often  —  that 's  all.  Why 
should  I  monopolize  you  when  I  'm  not  —  You  see,  I  'm 
deficient  in  something  with  regard  to  you  —  " 

He  was  telling  her  he  did  not  love  her,  and  so  ought  to 
leave  her  a  chance  with  another  man.  How  foolish  and 
blind  and  shamefully  clumsy  he  was !  What  were  other 
men  to  her!  What  were  men  to  her  at  all!  But  he,  ah! 
she  loved  his  soul.  Was  he  deficient  in  something?  Per- 
haps he  was. 

"  But  I  don't  understand,"  she  said  huskily.  "  Yester- 
day —  " 

The  night  was  turning  jangled  and  hateful  to  him  as 
the  twilight  faded.  And  she  bowed  under  her  suffering. 

"  I  know,"  he  cried,  "  you  never  will !  You  '11  never 
believe  that  I  can't  —  can't  physically,  any  more  than 
I  can  fly  up  like  a  skylark  —  " 

"  What?  "  she  murmured.    Now  she  dreaded. 

"  Love  you." 

He  hated  her  bitterly  at  that  moment  because  he  made 
her  suffer.  Love  her !  She  knew  he  loved  her.  He  really 
belonged  to  her.  This  about  not  loving  her,  physically, 


274  Sons  and  Lovers 

bodily,  was  a  mere  perversity  on  his  part,  because  he 
knew  she  loved  him.  He  was  stupid  like  a  child.  He 
belonged  to  her.  His  soul  wanted  her.  She  guessed 
somebody  had  been  influencing  him.  She  felt  upon  him 
the  hardness,  the  foreignness  of  another  influence. 

"  What  have  they  been  saying  at  home?  "  she  asked. 

"  It 's  not  that,"  he  answered. 

And  then  she  knew  it  was.  She  despised  them  for  their 
commonness,  his  people.  They  did  not  know  what  things 
were  really  worth. 

He  and  she  talked  very  little  more  that  night.  After 
all  he  left  her  to  cycle  with  Edgar. 

He  had  come  back  to  his  mother.  Hers  was  the  strong- 
est tie  in  his  life.  When  he  thought  round,  Miriam  shrank 
away.  There  was  a  vague,  unreal  feel  about  her.  And 
nobody  else  mattered.  There  was  one  place  in  the  world 
that  stood  solid  and  did  not  melt  into  unreality:  the 
place  where  his  mother  was.  Everybody  else  could  grow 
shadowy,  almost  non-existent  to  him,  but  she  could  not. 
It  was  as  if  the  pivot  and  pole  of  his  life,  from  which  he 
could  not  escape,  was  his  mother. 

And  in  the  same  way  she  waited  for  him.  In  him  was 
established  her  life  now.  After  all,  the  life  beyond  of- 
fered very  little  to  Mrs.  Morel.  She  saw  that  our  chance 
for  doing  is  here,  and  doing  counted  with  her.  Paul  was 
going  to  prove  that  she  had  been  right ;  he  was  going  to 
make  a  man  whom  nothing  should  shift  off  his  feet;  he 
was  going  to  alter  the  face  of  the  earth  in  some  way  which 
mattered.  Wherever  he  went  she  felt  her  soul  went  with 
him.  Whatever  he  did  she  felt  her  soul  stood  by  him, 
ready,  as  it  were,  to  hand  him  his  tools.  She  could  not 
bear  it  when  he  was  with  Miriam.  William  was  dead.  She 
would  fight  to  keep  Paul. 

And  he  came  back  to  her.  And  in  his  soul  was  a  feel- 
ing of  the  satisfaction  of  self-sacrifice  because  he  was 
faithful  to  her.  She  loved  him  first;  he  loved  her  first. 
And  yet  it  was  not  enough.  His  new  young  life,  so  strong 
and  imperious,  was  urged  towards  something  else.  It 


Defeat  of  Miriam  275 

made  him  mad  with  restlessness.  She  saw  this,  and 
wished  bitterly  that  Miriam  had  been  a  woman  who  could 
take  this  new  life  of  his,  and  leave  her  the  roots.  He 
fought  against  his  mother  almost  as  he  fought  against 
Miriam. 

It  was  a  week  before  he  went  again  to  Willey  Farm. 
Miriam  had  suffered  a  great  deal,  and  was  afraid  to  see 
him  again.  Was  she  now  to  endure  the  ignominy  of  his 
abandoning  her?  That  would  only  be  superficial  and 
temporary.  He  would  come  back.  She  held  the  keys 
to  his  soul.  But  meanwhile,  how  he  would  torture  her 
with  his  battle  against  her.  She  shrank  from  it. 

However,  the  Sunday  after  Easter  he  came  to  tea. 
Mrs.  Leivers  was  glad  to  see  him.  She  gathered  some- 
thing was  fretting  him,  that  he  found  things  hard.  He 
seemed  to  drift  to  her  for  comfort.  And  she  was  good 
to  him.  She  did  him  that  great  kindness  of  treating 
him  almost  with  reverence. 

He  met  her  with  the  young  children  in  the  front 
garden. 

"  I  'm  glad  you  've  come,"  said  the  mother,  looking  at 
him  with  her  great  appealing  brown  eyes.  "  It  is  such 
a  sunny  day.  I  was  just  going  down  the  fields  for  the 
first  time  this  year." 

He  felt  she  would  like  him  to  come.  That  soothed  him. 
They  went,  talking  simply,  he  gentle  and  humble.  He 
could  have  wept  with  gratitude  that  she  was  deferential 
to  him.  He  was  feeling  humiliated. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  Mow  Close  they  found  a  thrush's 
nest. 

"  Shall  I  show  you  the  eggs?  "  he  said. 

"  Do !  "  replied  Mrs.  Leivers.  "  They  seem  such  a 
sign  of  spring,  and  so  hopeful." 

He  put  aside  the  thorns,  and  took  out  the  eggs,  hold- 
ing them  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"  They  are  quite  hot  —  I  think  we  frightened  her  off 
them,"  he  said. 

"  Ay,  poor  thing !  "  said  Mrs.  Leivers. 


276  $071$  and  Lovers 

Miriam  could  not  help  touching  the  eggs,  and  his  hand 
which,  it  seemed  to  her,  cradled  them  so  well. 

"  Is  n't  it  a  strange  warmth !  "  she  murmured,  to  get 
near  him. 

"  Blood  heat,"  he  answered. 

She  watched  him  putting  them  back,  his  body  pressed 
against  the  hedge,  his  arm  reaching  slowly  through  the 
thorns,  his  hand  folded  carefully  over  the  eggs.  He  was 
concentrated  on  the  act.  Seeing  him  so,  she  loved  him; 
he  seemed  so  simple  and  sufficient  to  himself.  And  she 
could  not  get  to  him. 

After  tea  she  stood  hesitating  at  the  bookshelf.  He 
took  "  Tartarin  de  Tarascon."  Again  they  sat  on  the 
bank  of  hay  at  the  foot  of  the  stack.  He  read  a  couple 
of  pages,  but  without  any  heart  for  it.  Again  the 
dog  came  racing  up  to  repeat  the  fun  of  the  other 
day.  He  shoved  his  muzzle  in  the  man's  chest.  Paul 
fingered  his  ear  for  a  moment.  Then  he  pushed  him 
away. 

"  Go  away,  Bill,"  he  said.     "  I  don't  want  you." 

Bill  slunk  off,  and  Miriam  wondered  and  dreaded  what 
was  coming.  There  was  a  silence  about  the  youth  that 
made  her  still  with  apprehension.  It  was  not  his  furies, 
but  his  quiet  resolutions  that  she  feared. 

Turning  his  face  a  little  to  one  side,  so  that  she  could 
not  see  him,  he  began,  speaking  slowly  and  painfully: 

"  Do  you  think  —  if  I  did  n't  come  up  so  much  —  you 
might  get  to  like  somebody  else  —  another  man?" 

So  this  was  what  he  was  still  harping  on. 

"  But  I  don't  know  any  other  men.  Why  do  you  ask?  " 
she  replied,  in  a  low  tone  that  should  have  been  a  re- 
proach to  him. 

"  Why,"  he  blurted,  "  because  they  say  I  've  no  right 
to  come  up  like  this  —  without  we  mean  to  marry  —  " 

Miriam  was  indignant  at  anybody's  forcing  the  issues 
between  them.  She  had  been  furious  with  her  own  father 
for  suggesting  to  Paul,  laughingly,  that  he  knew  why 
he  came  so  much. 


Defeat  of  Miriam  277 

66  Who  says  ?  "  she  asked,  wondering  if  her  people  had 
anything  to  do  with  it.  They  had  not. 

"  Mother  —  and  the  others.  They  say  at  this  rate 
everybody  will  consider  me  engaged,  and  I  ought  to 
consider  myself  so,  because  it 's  not  fair  to  you.  And 
I  've  tried  to  find  out  —  and  I  don't  think  I  love  you  as 
a  man  ought  to  love  his  wife.  What  do  you  think 
about  it?" 

Miriam  bowed  her  head  moodily.  She  was  angry  at 
having  this  struggle.  People  should  leave  him  and  her 
alone. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  murmured. 

"  Do  you  think  we  love  each  other  enough  to  marry?  " 
he  asked  definitely.  It  made  her  tremble. 

"  No,"  she  answered  truthfully.  "  I  don't  think  so  — 
we  're  too  young." 

"  I  thought  perhaps,"  he  went  on  miserably,  "  that  you, 
with  your  intensity  in  things,  might  have  given  me  more 

—  than  I  could  ever  make  up  to  you.     And  even  now  — 
if  you  think  it  better  —  we  '11  be  engaged." 

Now  Miriam  wanted  to  cry.  And  she  was  angry,  too. 
He  was  always  such  a  child  for  people  to  do  as  they 
liked  with. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so,"  she  said  firmly. 

He  pondered  a  minute. 

66  You  see,"  he  said,  "  with  me  —  I  don't  think  one 
person  would  ever  monopolize  me  —  be  everything  to  me 

—  I  think  never." 

This  she  did  not  consider. 

"  No,"  she  murmured.  Then,  after  a  pause,  she  looked 
at  him  and  her  dark  eyes  flashed. 

"  This  is  your  mother,"  she  said.  "  I  know  she  never 
liked  me." 

"  No,  no,  it  is  n't,"  he  said  hastily.  "  It  was  for  your 
sake  she  spoke  this  time.  She  only  said,  if  I  was  going 
on,  I  ought  to  consider  myself  engaged."  There  was  a 
silence.  "  And  if  I  ask  you  to  come  down  any  time, 
you  won't  stop  away,  will  you?  " 


278  /Sows  and  Lovers 

She  did  not  answer.    By  this  time  she  was  very  angry. 

"Well,  what  shall  we  do?"  she  said  shortly.  "I 
suppose  I  'd  better  drop  French.  I  was  just  beginning 
to  get  on  with  it.  But  I  suppose  I  can  go  on  alone." 

"  I  don't  see  that  we  need,"  he  said.  "  I  can  give  you 
a  French  lesson,  surely." 

"  Well  —  and  there  are  Sunday  nights.  I  shan't  stop 
coming  to  chapel,  because  I  enj  oy  it,  and  it 's  all  the 
social  life  I  get.  But  you  've  no  need  to  come  home  with 
me.  I  can  go  alone." 

"  All  right,"  he  answered,  rather  taken  aback.  "  But 
if  I  ask  Edgar,  he  '11  always  come  with  us,  and  then  they 
can  say  nothing." 

There  was  silence.  After  all,  then,  she  would  not  lose 
much.  For  all  their  talk  down  at  his  home  there  would 
not  be  much  difference.  She  wished  they  would  mind  their 
own  business. 

"  And  you  won't  think  about  it,  and  let  it  trouble 
you,  will  you?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  Miriam,  without  looking  at  him. 

He  was  silent.  She  thought  him  unstable.  He  had  no 
fixity  of  purpose,  no  anchor  of  righteousness  that  held 
him. 

"  Because,"  he  continued,  "  a  man  gets  across  his 
bicycle  —  and  goes  to  work  —  and  does  all  sorts  of 
things.  But  a  woman  broods." 

"  No,  I  shan't  bother,"  said  Miriam.  And  she  meant 
it. 

It  had  gone  rather  chilly.     They  went  indoors. 

"  How  white  Paul  looks ! "  Mrs.  Leivers  exclaimed. 
"Miriam,  you  shouldn't  have  let  him  sit  out  of  doors. 
Do  you  think  you  've  taken  cold,  Paul?  " 

"  Oh  no !  "  he  laughed. 

But  he  felt  done  up.  It  wore  him  out,  the  conflict  in 
himself.  Miriam  pitied  him  now.  But  quite  early,  be- 
fore nine  o'clock,  he  rose  to  go. 

"  You  're  not  going  home,  are  you  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Leivers  anxiously. 


Defeat  of  Miriam  279 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.  "  I  said  I  'd  be  early."  He  was 
very  awkward. 

"  But  this  is  early,"  said  Mr.  Leivers. 

Miriam  sat  in  the  rocking-chair,  and  did  not  speak. 
He  hesitated,  expecting  her  to  rise  and  go  with  him  to 
the  barn  as  usual  for  his  bicycle.  She  remained  as  she 
was.  He  was  at  a  loss. 

"  Well  —  good-night  all !  "  he  faltered. 

She  spoke  her  good-night  along  with  all  the  others. 
But  as  he  went  past  the  window  he  looked  in.  She  saw 
him  pale,  his  brows  knit  slightly  in  a  way  that  had  become 
constant  with  him,  his  eyes  dark  with  pain. 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  doorway  to  wave  good-bye  to 
him  as  he  passed  through  the  gate.  He  rode  slowly  under 
the  pine-trees,  feeling  a  cur  and  a  miserable  wretch.  His 
bicycle  went  tilting  down  the  hills  at  random.  He  thought 
it  would  be  a  relief  to  break  one's  neck. 

Two  days  later  he  sent  her  up  a  book  and  a  little  note, 
urging  her  to  read  and  be  busy. 

At  this  time  he  gave  all  his  friendship  to  Edgar. 
He  loved  the  family  so  much,  he  loved  the  farm  so  much ; 
it  was  the  dearest  place  on  earth  to  him.  His  home  was 
not  so  lovable.  It  was  his  mother.  But  then  he  would 
have  been  just  as  happy  with  his  mother  anywhere. 
Whereas  Willey  Farm  he  loved  passionately.  He  loved 
the  little  pokey  kitchen,  where  men's  boots  tramped,  and 
the  dog  slept  with  one  eye  open  for  fear  of  being  trodden 
on;  where  the  lamp  hung  over  the  table  at  night,  and 
everything  was  so  silent.  He  loved  Miriam's  long,  low 
parlour,  with  its  atmosphere  of  romance,  its  flowers,  its 
books,  its  high  rosewood  piano.  He  loved  the  gardens 
and  the  buildings  that  stood  with  their  scarlet  roofs  on 
the  naked  edges  of  the  fields,  crept  towards  the  wood  as 
if  for  cosiness,  the  wild  country  scooping  down  a  valley 
and  up  the  uncultured  hills  of  the  other  side.  Only  to 
be  there  was  an  exhilaration  and  a  joy  to  him.  He  loved 
Mrs.  Leivers,  with  her  unworldliness  and  her  quaint 
cynicism;  he  loved  Mr.  Leivers,  so  warm  and  young  and 


280  Sons  and  Lovers 

lovable;  he  loved  Edgar,  who  lit  up  when  he  came,  and 
the  boys  and  the  children  and  Bill  —  even  the  sow  Circe 
and  the  Indian  game-cock  called  Tippoo.  All  this  besides 
Miriam.  He  could  not  give  it  up. 

So  he  went  as  often,  but  he  was  usually  with  Edgar. 
Only  all  the  family,  including  the  father,  joined  in 
charades  and  games  at  evening.  And  later,  Miriam  drew 
them  together,  and  they  read  "  Macbeth  "  out  of  penny 
books,  taking  parts.  It  was  great  excitement.  Miriam 
was  glad,  and  Mrs.  Leivers  was  glad,  and  Mr.  Leivers 
enjoyed  it.  Then  they  all  learned  songs  together  from 
tonic  sol-fa,  singing  in  a  circle  round  the  fire.  But  now 
Paul  was  very  rarely  alone  with  Miriam.  She  waited. 
When  she  and  Edgar  and  he  walked  home  together  from 
chapel  or  from  the  literary  society  in  Bestwood,  she  knew 
his  talk,  so  passionate  and  so  unorthodox  nowadays,  was 
for  her.  She  did  envy  Edgar,  however,  his  cycling  with 
Paul,  his  Friday  nights,  his  days  working  in  the  fields. 
For  her  Friday  nights  and  her  French  lessons  were  gone. 
She  was  nearly  always  alone,  walking,  pondering  in  the 
wood,  reading,  studying,  dreaming,  waiting.  And  he 
wrote  to  her  frequently. 

One  Sunday  evening  they  attained  to  their  old  rare 
harmony.  Edgar  had  stayed  to  Communion  —  he  won- 
dered what  it  was  like  —  with  Mrs.  Morel.  So  Paul 
came  on  alone  with  Miriam  to  his  home.  He  was  more 
or  less  under  her  spell  again.  As  usual,  they  were  dis- 
cussing the  sermon.  He  was  setting  now  full  sail  towards 
Agnosticism,  but  such  a  religious  Agnosticism  that  Miriam 
did  not  suffer  so  badly.  They  were  at  the  Renan  "  Vie 
de  Jesus  "  stage.  Miriam  was  the  threshing-floor  on 
which  he  threshed  out  all  his  beliefs.  While  he  trampled  his 
ideas  upon  her  soul,  the  truth  came  out  for  him.  She  alone 
was  his  threshing-floor.  She  alone  helped  him  towards 
realization.  Almost  impassive,  she  submitted  to  his  argu- 
ment and  expounding.  And  somehow,  because  of  her, 
he  gradually  realized  where  he  was  wrong.  And  what  he 
realized,  she  realized.  She  felt  he  could  not  do  without  her. 


Defeat  of  Miriam  281 

They  came  to  the  silent  house.  He  took  the  key  out 
of  the  scullery  window,  and  they  entered.  All  the  time 
he  went  on  with  his  discussion.  He  lit  the  gas,  mended 
the  fire,  and  brought  her  some  cakes  from  the  pantry. 
She  sat  on  the  sofa,  quietly,  with  a  plate  on  her  knee. 
She  wore  a  large  white  hat  with  some  pinkish  flowers. 
It  was  a  cheap  hat,  but  he  liked  it.  Her  face  beneath 
was  still  and  pensive,  golden-brown  and  ruddy.  Always 
her  ears  were  hid  in  her  short  curls.  She  watched 
him. 

She  liked  him  on  Sundays.  Then  he  wore  a  dark  suit 
that  showed  the  lithe  movement  of  his  body.  There  was 
a  clean,  clear-cut  look  about  him.  He  went  on  with  his 
thinking  to  her.  Suddenly  he  reached  for  a  Bible. 
Miriam  liked  the  way  he  reached  up  —  so  sharp,  straight 
to  the  mark.  He  turned  the  pages  quickly,  and  read  her 
a  chapter  of  St.  John.  As  he  sat  in  the  arm-chair  read- 
ing, intent,  his  voice  only  thinking,  she  felt  as  if  he  were 
using  her  unconsciously  as  a  man  uses  his  tools  at  some 
work  he  is  bent  on.  She  loved  it.  And  the  wistfulness 
of  his  voice  was  like  a  reaching  to  something,  and  it 
was  as  if  she  were  what  he  reached  with.  She  sat  back 
on  the  sofa  away  from  him,  and  yet  feeling  herself 
the  very  instrument  his  hand  grasped.  It  gave  her  great 
pleasure. 

Then  he  began  to  falter  and  to  get  self-conscious.  And 
when  he  came  to  the  verse,  "  A  woman,  when  she  is  in 
travail,  hath  sorrow  because  her  hour  is  come/'  he  missed 
it  out.  Miriam  had  felt  him  growing  uncomfortable. 
She  shrank  when  the  well-known  words  did  not  follow. 
He  went  on  reading,  but  she  did  not  hear.  A  grief  and 
shame  made  her  bend  her  head.  Six  months  ago  he  would 
have  read  it  simply.  Now  there  was  a  scotch  in  his 
running  with  her.  Now  she  felt  there  was  really  some- 
thing hostile  between  them,  something  of  which  they  were 
ashamed. 

She  ate  her  cake  mechanically.  He  tried  to  go  on  with 
his  argument,  but  could  not  get  back  the  right  note. 


Sons  and  Lovers 

Soon  Edgar  came  in.  Mrs.  Morel  had  gone  to  her 
friends'.  The  three  set  off  to  Willey  Farm. 

Miriam  brooded  over  his  split  with  her.  There  was 
something  else  he  wanted.  He  could  not  be  satisfied;  he 
could  give  her  no  peace.  There  was  between  them  now 
always  a  ground  for  strife.  She  wanted  to  prove  him. 
She  believed  that  his  chief  need  in  life  was  herself.  If 
she  could  prove  it,  both  to  herself  and  to  him,  the  rest 
might  go ;  she  could  simply  trust  to  the  future. 

So  in  May  she  asked  him  to  come  to  Willey  Farm  and 
meet  Mrs.  Dawes.  There  was  something  he  hankered 
after.  She  saw  him,  whenever  they  spoke  of  Clara  Dawes, 
rouse  and  get  slightly  angry.  He  said  he  did  not  like 
her.  Yet  he  was  keen  to  know  about  her.  Well,  he 
should  put  himself  to  the  test.  She  believed  that  there 
were  in  him  desires  for  higher  things,  and  desires  for 
lower,  and  that  the  desire  for  the  higher  would  conquer. 
At  any  rate,  he  should  try.  She  forgot  that  her 
"  higher  "  and  "  lower  "  were  arbitrary. 

He  was  rather  excited  at  the  idea  of  meeting  Clara  at 
Willey  Farm.  Mrs.  Dawes  came  for  the  day.  Her  heavy, 
dun-coloured  hair  was  coiled  on  top  of  her  head.  She 
wore  a  white  blouse  and  navy  skirt,  and  somehow, 
wherever  she  was,  seemed  to  make  things  look  paltry  and 
insignificant.  When  she  was  in  the  room,  the  kitchen 
seemed  too  small  and  mean  altogether.  Miriam's  beau- 
tiful twilighty  parlour  looked  stiff  and  stupid.  All  the 
Leivers  were  eclipsed  like  candles.  They  found  her  rather 
hard  to  put  up  with.  Yet  she  was  perfectly  amiable,  but 
indifferent,  and  rather  hard. 

Paul  did  not  come  till  afternoon.  He  was  early.  As 
he  swung  off  his  bicycle,  Miriam  saw  him  look  round  at 
the  house  eagerly.  He  would  be  disappointed  if  the 
visitor  had  not  come.  Miriam  went  out  to  meet  him, 
bowing  her  head  because  of  the  sunshine.  Nasturtiums 
were  coming  out  crimson  under  the  cool  green  shadow 
of  their  leaves.  The  girl  stood,  dark-haired,  glad  to 
see  him. 


Defeat  of  Miriam  283 

"  Has  n't  Clara  come?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Miriam  in  her  musical  tone.  "  She  's 
reading." 

He  wheeled  his  bicycle  into  the  barn.  He  had  put  on 
a  handsome  tie,  of  which  he  was  rather  proud,  and  socks 
to  match. 

"  She  came  this  morning?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Miriam,  as  she  walked  at  his  side. 
"  You  said  you  'd  bring  me  that  letter  from  the  man  at 
Liberty's.  Have  you  remembered?  " 

"  Oh  dash,  no !  "  he  said.  "  But  nag  at  me  till  you 
get  it." 

"  I  don't  like  to  nag  at  you." 

"  Do  it  whether  or  not.  And  is  she  any  more  agree- 
able? "  he  continued. 

"  You  know  I  always  think  she  is  quite  agreeable." 

He  was  silent.  Evidently  his  eagerness  to  be  early 
to-day  had  been  the  newcomer.  Miriam  already  began  to 
suffer.  They  went  together  towards  the  house.  He  took 
the  clips  off  his  trousers,  but  was  too  lazy  to  brush  the 
dust  from  his  shoes,  in  spite  of  the  socks  and  tie. 

Clara  sat  in  the  cool  parlour  reading.  He  saw  the 
nape  of  her  white  neck,  and  the  fine  hair  lifted  from  it. 
She  rose,  looking  at  him  indifferently.  To  shake  hands 
she  lifted  her  arm  straight,  in  a  manner  that  seemed  at 
once  to  keep  him  at  a  distance,  and  yet  to  fling  something 
to  him.  He  noticed  how  her  breasts  swelled  inside  her 
blouse,  and  how  her  shoulder  curved  handsomely  under 
the  thin  muslin  at  the  top  of  her  arm. 

"  You  have  chosen  a  fine  day,"  he  said. 

"  It  happens  so,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  he  said;   «  I  am  glad." 

She  sat  down,  not  thanking  him  for  his  politeness. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  all  morning?  "  asked 
Paul  of  Miriam. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  said  Miriam,  coughing  huskily, 
"  Clara  only  came  with  father  —  and  so  —  she  's  not  been 
here  very  long." 


284  Sons  and  Lovers 

Clara  sat  leaning  on  the  table,  holding  aloof.  He 
noticed  her  hands  were  large,  but  well  kept.  And  the 
skin  on  them  seemed  almost  coarse,  opaque,  and  white, 
with  fine  golden  hairs.  She  did  not  mind  if  he  observed 
her  hands.  She  intended  to  scorn  him.  Her  heavy  arm 
lay  negligently  on  the  table.  Her  mouth  was  closed  as 
if  she  were  offended,  and  she  kept  her  face  slightly 
averted. 

"  You  were  at  Margaret  Bonford's  meeting  the  other 
evening,"  he  said  to  her. 

Miriam  did  not  know  this  courteous  Paul.  Clara 
glanced  at  him. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  Why,"  asked  Miriam,  "  how  do  you  know?  " 

"  I  went  in  for  a  few  minutes  before  the  train  came," 
he  answered. 

Clara  turned  away  again  rather  disdainfully. 

"  I  think  she  's  a  lovable  little  woman,"  said  Paul. 

"Margaret  Bonford!"  exclaimed  Clara.  "She's  a 
great  deal  cleverer  than  most  men." 

"  Well,  I  did  n't  say  she  was  n't,"  he  said,  deprecating. 
"  She  's  lovable  for  all  that." 

"  And  of  course,  that  is  all  that  matters,"  said  Clara 
witheringly. 

He  rubbed  his  head,  rather  perplexed,  rather  annoyed. 

"  I  suppose  it  matters  more  than  her  cleverness,"  he 
said ;  "  which,  after  all,  would  never  get  her  to  heaven." 

"  It 's  not  heaven  she  wants  to  get  —  it 's  her  fair 
share  on  earth,"  retorted  Clara.  She  spoke  as  if  he  were 
responsible  for  some  deprivation  which  Miss  Bonford 
suffered. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  thought  she  was  warm,  and 
awfully  nice  —  only  too  frail.  I  wished  she  was  sitting 
comfortably  in  peace  —  ' 

"  *  Darning  her  husband's  stockings,' '  said  Clara 
scathingly. 

"  I  'm  sure  she  would  n't  mind  darning  even  my  stock- 
ings," he  said.  "  And  I  'm  sure  she  'd  do  them  well. 


Defeat  of  Miriam  285 

Just  as  I  would  n't  mind  blacking  her  boots  if  she  wanted 
me  to." 

But  Clara  refused  to  answer  this  sally  of  his.  He 
talked  to  Miriam  for  a  little  while.  The  other  woman 
held  aloof. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  think  I  '11  go  and  see  Edgar.  Is 
he  on  the  land?  " 

"  I  believe,"  said  Miriam,  "  he  's  gone  for  a  load  of 
coal.  He  should  be  back  directly." 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  I  '11  go  and  meet  him." 

Miriam  dared  not  propose  anything  for  the  three  of 
them.  He  rose  and  left  them. 

On  the  top  road,  where  the  gorse  was  out,  he  saw 
Edgar  walking  lazily  beside  the  mare,  who  nodded  her 
white-starred  forehead  as  she  dragged  the  clanking  load 
of  coal.  The  young  farmer's  face  lighted  up  as  he  saw 
his  friend.  Edgar  was  good-looking,  with  dark,  warm 
eyes.  His  clothes  were  old  and  rather  disreputable,  and 
he  walked  with  considerable  pride. 

"  Hello  !  "  he  said,  seeing  Paul  bareheaded.  "  Where 
are  you  going?  " 

"  Came  to  meet  you.     Can't  stand  '  Nevermore.' ' 

Edgar's  teeth  flashed  in  a  laugh  of  amusement. 

"  Who  is  '  Nevermore  '?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  lady  —  Mrs.  Dawes  —  it  ought  to  be  Mrs.  The 
Raven  that  quothed  '  Nevermore.'  " 

Edgar  laughed  with  glee. 

"  Don't  you  like  her?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  a  fat  lot,"  said  Paul.     "  Why,  do  you?  " 

"  No !  "  The  answer  came  with  a  deep  ring  of  con- 
viction. "  No !  "  Edgar  pursed  up  his  lips.  "  I  can't  say 
she 's  much  in  my  line."  He  mused  a  little.  Then : 
"But  why  do  you  call  her  'Nevermore'?"  he  asked. 

"  Well,"  said  Paul,  "  if  she  looks  at  a  man  she  says 
haughtily  '  Nevermore,'  and  if  she  looks  at  herself  in  the 
looking-glass  she  says  disdainfully  '  Nevermore,'  and  if 
she  thinks  back  she  says  it  in  disgust,  and  if  she  looks 
forward  she  says  it  cynically." 


286  Sons  and  Lovers 

Edgar  considered  this  speech,  failed  to  make  much  out 
of  it,  and  said,  laughing: 

"You  think  she's  a  man-hater?" 

"  She  thinks  she  is,"  replied  Paul. 

"  But  you  don't  think  so?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Paul. 

"  Was  n't  she  nice  with  you,  then?  " 

"  Could  you  imagine  her  nice  with  anybody?  "  asked 
the  young  man. 

Edgar  laughed.  Together  they  unloaded  the  coal  in 
the  yard.  Paul  was  rather  self-conscious,  because  he 
knew  Clara  could  see  if  she  looked  out  of  the  window. 
She  did  n't  look. 

On  Saturday  afternoons  the  horses  were  brushed  down 
and  groomed.  Paul  and  Edgar  worked  together,  sneez- 
ing with  the  dust  that  came  from  the  pelts  of  Jimmy  and 
Flower. 

"  Do  you  know  a  new  song  to  teach  me?  "  said  Edgar. 

He  continued  to  work  all  the  time.  The  back  of  his 
neck  was  sun-red  when  he  bent  down,  and  his  fingers  that 
held  the  brush  were  thick.  Paul  watched  him  sometimes. 

"  '  Mary  Morrison  '?  "  suggested  the  younger. 

Edgar  agreed.  He  had  a  good  tenor  voice,  and  he 
loved  to  learn  all  the  songs  his  friend  could  teach  him,  so 
that  he  could  sing  whilst  he  was  carting.  Paul  had  a 
very  indifferent  baritone  voice,  but  a  good  ear.  How- 
ever, he  sang  softly,  for  fear  of  Clara.  Edgar  repeated 
the  line  in  a  clear  tenor.  At  times  they  both  broke  off 
to  sneeze,  and  first  one,  then  the  other,  abused  his 
horse. 

Miriam  was  impatient  of  men.  It  took  so  little  to 
amuse  them  —  even  Paul.  She  thought  it  anomalous  in 
him  that  he  could  be  so  thoroughly  absorbed  in  a 
triviality. 

It  was  teatime  when  they  had  finished. 

"  What  song  was  that?  "  asked  Miriam. 

Edgar  told  her.     The  conversation  turned  to  singing. 

"We  have  such  jolly  times,"  Miriam  said  to  Clara. 


Defeat  of  Miriam  287 

Mrs.  Dawes  ate  her  meal  in  a  slow,  dignified  way. 
Whenever  the  men  were  present  she  grew  distant. 

"  Do  you  like  singing?  "  Miriam  asked  her. 

"  If  it  is  good,"  she  said. 

Paul,  of  course,  coloured. 

"  You  mean  if  it  is  high-class  and  trained?  "  he  said. 

"  I  think  a  voice  needs  training  before  the  singing  is 
anything,"  she  said. 

"  You  might  as  well  insist  on  having  people's  voices 
trained  before  you  allowed  them  to  talk,"  he  replied. 
"  Really,  people  sing  for  their  own  pleasure,  as  a  rule." 

"  And  it  may  be  for  other  people's  discomfort." 

"  Then  the  other  people  should  have  flaps  to  their 
ears,"  he  replied. 

The  boys  laughed.  There  was  silence.  He  flushed 
deeply,  and  ate  in  silence. 

After  tea,  when  all  the  men  had  gone  but  Paul,  Mrs. 
Leivers  said  to  Clara: 

"  And  you  find  life  happier  now?  " 

"  Infinitely." 

"And  you  are  satisfied?" 

"  So  long  as  I  can  be  free  and  independent." 

"  And  you  don't  miss  anything  in  your  life  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Leivers  gently. 

"  I  've  put  all  that  behind  me." 

Paul  had  been  feeling  uncomfortable  during  this  dis- 
course. He  got  up. 

"  You  '11  find  you  're  always  tumbling  over  the  things 
you  've  put  behind  you,"  he  said.  Then  he  took  his 
departure  to  the  cowsheds.  He  felt  he  had  been  witty, 
and  his  manly  pride  was  high.  He  whistled  as  he  went 
down  the  brick  track. 

Miriam  came  for  him  a  little  later  to  know  if  he  would 
go  with  Clara  and  her  for  a  walk.  They  set  off  down  to 
Strelley  Mill  Farm.  As  they  were  going  beside  the  brook, 
on  the  Willey  Water  side,  looking  through  the  brake  at 
the  edge  of  the  wood,  where  pink  campions  glowed  under 
a  few  sunbeams,  they  saw,  beyond  the  tree-trunks  and  the 


288  Sons  and  Lovers 

thin  hazel  bushes,  a  man  leading  a  great  bay  horse 
through  the  gullies.  The  big  red  beast  seemed  to  dance 
romantically  through  that  dimness  of  green  hazel  drift, 
away  there  where  the  air  was  shadowy,  as  if  it  were  in 
the  past,  among  the  fading  bluebells  that  might  have 
bloomed  for  Deidre  of  Iseult. 

The  three  stood  charmed. 

"  What  a  treat  to  be  a  knight,"  he  said,  "  and  to  have 
a  pavilion  here." 

"  And  to  have  us  shut  up  safely?  "  replied  Clara. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  singing  with  your  maids  at 
your  broidery.  I  would  carry  your  banner  of  white  and 
green  and  heliotrope.  I  would  have  '  W.S.P.U.'  em- 
blazoned on  my  shield,  beneath  a  woman  rampant." 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Clara,  "  that  you  would  much 
rather  fight  for  a  woman  than  let  her  fight  for  her- 
self." 

"  I  would.  When  she  fights  for  herself  she  seems  like 
a  dog  before  a  looking-glass,  gone  into  a  mad  fury  with 
its  own  shadow." 

"And  you  are  the  looking-glass?"  she  asked,  with  a 
curl  of  the  lip. 

"  Or  the  shadow,"  he  replied. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  "  that  you  are  too  clever." 

"  Well,  I  leave  it  to  you  to  be  good,"  he  retorted, 
laughing.  "  Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  just  let  me  be 
clever." 

But  Clara  wearied  of  his  flippancy.  Suddenly,  looking 
at  her,  he  saw  that  the  upward  lifting  of  her  face  was 
misery  and  not  scorn.  His  heart  grew  tender  for  every- 
body. He  turned  and  was  gentle  with  Miriam,  whom  he 
had  neglected  till  then. 

At  the  wood's  edge  they  met  Limb,  a  thin,  swarthy  man 
of  forty,  tenant  of  Strelley  Mill,  which  he  ran  as  a  cattle- 
raising  farm.  He  held  the  halter  of  the  powerful  stallion 
indifferently,  as  if  he  were  tired.  The  three  stood  to  let 
him  pass  over  the  stepping-stones  of  the  first  brook. 
Paul  admired  that  so  large  an  animal  should  walk  on 


Defeat  of  Miriam  289 

such  springy  toes,  with  an  endless  excess  of  vigour.  Limb 
pulled  up  before  them. 

"  Tell  your  father,  Miss  Leivers,"  he  said,  in  a  peculiar 
piping  voice,  "  that  his  young  beas'es  'as  broke  that 
bottom  fence  three  days  an'  runnin'." 

"Which?"  asked  Miriam,  tremulous. 

The  great  horse  breathed  heavily,  shifting  round  its 
red  flanks,  and  looking  suspiciously  with  its  wonderful 
big  eyes  upwards  from  under  its  lowered  head  and  falling 
mane. 

"  Come  along  a  bit,"  replied  Limb,  "  an'  I  '11  show 
you." 

The  man  and  the  stallion  went  forward.  It  danced 
sideways,  shaking  its  white  fetlocks  and  looking  fright- 
ened, as  it  felt  itself  in  the  brook. 

"  No  hanky-pankyin',"  said  the  man  affectionately  to 
the  beast. 

It  went  up  the  bank  in  little  leaps,  then  splashed 
finely  through  the  second  brook.  Clara,  walking  with  a 
kind  of  sulky  abandon,  watched  it  half-fascinated,  half- 
contemptuous.  Limb  stopped  and  pointed  to  the  fence 
under  some  willows. 

"  There,  you  see  where  they  got  through,"  he  said. 
"  My  man  's  druv  'em  back  three  times." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Miriam,  colouring  as  if  she  were  at 
fault. 

66  Are  you  comin'  in?  "  asked  the  man. 

"  No,  thanks ;   but  we  should  like  to  go  by  the  pond." 

"  Well,  just  as  you  've  a  mind,"  he  said. 

The  horse  gave  little  whinnies  of  pleasure  at  being 
so  near  home. 

"  He  is  glad  to  be  back,"  said  Clara,  who  was  inter- 
ested in  the  creature. 

"  Yes  —  'e  's  been  a  tidy  step  to-day." 

They  went  through  the  gate,  and  saw  approaching 
them  from  the  big  farmhouse  a  smallish,  dark,  excitable- 
looking  woman  of  about  thirty-five.  Her  hair  was 
touched  with  grey,  her  dark  eyes  looked  wild.  She 


290  Sons  and  Lovers 

walked  with  her  hands  behind  her  back.  Her  brother 
went  forward.  As  it  saw  her,  the  big  bay  stallion  whin- 
nied again.  She  came  up  excitedly. 

"  Are  you  home  again,  my  boy !  "  she  said  tenderly 
to  the  horse,  not  to  the  man.  The  great  beast  shifted 
round  to  her,  ducking  his  head.  She  smuggled  into  his 
mouth  the  wrinkled  yellow  apple  she  had  been  hiding 
behind  her  back,  then  she  kissed  him  near  the  eyes.  He 
gave  a  big  sigh  of  pleasure.  She  held  his  head  in  her 
arms  against  her  breast. 

"  Is  n't  he  splendid !  "  said  Miriam  to  her. 

Miss  Limb  looked  up.  Her  dark  eyes  glanced  straight 
at  Paul. 

"  Oh,  good-evening,  Miss  Leivers,"  she  said.  "  It 's 
ages  since  you  've  been  down." 

Miriam  introduced  her  friends. 

"  Your  horse  is  a  fine  fellow !  "  said  Clara. 

"  Is  n't  he !  "  Again  she  kissed  him.  "  As  loving  as 
any  man !  " 

"  More  loving  than  most  men,  I  should  think,"  replied 
Clara. 

"  He  's  a  nice  boy !  "  cried  the  woman,  again  embracing 
the  horse. 

Clara,  fascinated  by  the  big  beast,  went  up  to  stroke 
his  neck. 

"  He  's  quite  gentle,"  said  Miss  Limb.  "  Don't  you 
think  big  fellows  are?  " 

"  He  's  a  beauty !  "  replied  Clara. 

She  wanted  to  look  in  his  eyes.  She  wanted  him  to 
look  at  her. 

"  It 's  a  pity  he  can't  talk,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  but  he  can  —  all  but,"  replied  the  other  woman. 

Then  her  brother  moved  on  with  the  horse. 

"Are  you  coming  in?  Do  come  in,  Mr.  —  I  didn't 
catch  it." 

"  Morel,"  said  Miriam.  "  No,  we  won't  come  in,  but 
we  should  like  to  go  by  the  mill-pond." 

"  Yes  —  yes,  do.    Do  you  fish,  Mr.  Morel?  " 


Defeat  of  Miriam  291 

"  No,"  said  Paul. 

"  Because  if  you  do  you  might  come  and  fish  any 
time,"  said  Miss  Limb.  "  We  scarcely  see  a  soul  from 
week's  end  to  week's  end.  I  should  be  thankful." 

"  What  fish  are  there  in  the  pond?  "  he  asked. 

They  went  through  the  front  garden,  over  the  sluice, 
and  up  the  steep  bank  to  the  pond,  which  lay  in  shadow, 
with  its  two  wooded  islets.  Paul  walked  with  Miss 
Limb. 

"  I  should  n't  mind  swimming  here,"  he  said. 

"  Do,"  she  replied.  "  Come  when  you  like.  My 
brother  will  be  awfully  pleased  to  talk  with  you.  He  is 
so  quiet,  because  there  is  no  one  to  talk  to.  Do  come 
and  swim." 

Clara  came  up. 

"  It 's  a  fine  depth,"  she  said,  "  and  so  clear." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Limb. 

"Do  you  swim?"  said  Paul.  "Miss  Limb  was  just 
saying  we  could  come  when  we  liked." 

"  Of  course  there  's  the  farm-hands,"  said  Miss  Limb. 

They  talked  a  few  moments,  then  went  on  up  the  wild 
hill,  leaving  the  lonely,  haggard-eyed  woman  on  the 
bank. 

The  hillside  was  all  ripe  with  sunshine.  It  was  wild 
and  tussocky,  given  over  to  rabbits.  The  three  walked 
in  silence.  Then: 

"  She  makes  me  feel  uncomfortable,"  said  Paul. 

"  You  mean  Miss  Limb  ?  "  asked  Miriam.     "  Yes." 

"  What 's  a  matter  with  her?  Is  she  going  dotty  with 
being  too  lonely?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Miriam.  "  It 's  not  the  right  sort  of  life 
for  her.  I  think  it 's  cruel  to  bury  her  there.  7  really 
ought  to  go  and  see  her  more.  But  —  she  upsets  me." 

"  She  makes  me  feel  sorry  for  her  —  yes,  and  she 
bothers  me,"  he  said. 

"  I  suppose,"  blurted  Clara  suddenly,  "  she  wants  a 
man." 

The  other  two  were  silent  for  a  few  moments. 


Sons  and  Lovers 

"  But  it 's  the  loneliness  sends  her  cracked,"  said 
Paul. 

Clara  did  not  answer,  but  strode  on  uphill.  She  was 
walking  with  her  head  hanging,  her  legs  swinging  as  she 
kicked  through  the  dead  thistles  and  the  tussocky  grass, 
her  arms  hanging  loose.  RMher  than  walking,  her  hand- 
some body  seemed  to  be  blundering  up  the  hill.  A  hot 
wave  went  over  Paul.  He  was  curious  about  her.  Per- 
haps life  had  been  cruel  to  her.  He  forgot  Miriam, 
who  was  walking  beside  him  talking  to  him.  She  glanced 
at  him,  finding  he  did  not  answer  her.  His  eyes  were 
fixed  ahead  on  Clara. 

"  Do  you  still  think  she  is  disagreeable?  "  she  asked. 

He  did  not  notice  that  the  question  was  sudden.  It 
ran  with  his  thoughts. 

"  Something  's  the  matter  with  her,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Miriam. 

They  found  at  the  top  of  the  hill  a  hidden  wild  field, 
two  sides  of  which  were  backed  by  the  wood,  the  other 
sides  by  high  loose  hedges  of  hawthorn  and  elder-bushes. 
Between  these  overgrown  bushes  were  gaps  that  the  cattle 
might  have  walked  through  had  there  been  any  cattle 
now.  There  the  turf  was  smooth  as  velveteen,  padded  and 
holed  by  the  rabbits.  The  field  itself  was  coarse,  and 
crowded  with  tall,  big  cowslips  that  had  never  been  cut. 
Clusters  of  strong  flowers  rose  everywhere  above  the 
coarse  tussocks  of  bent.  It  was  like  a  roadstead  crowded 
with  tall,  fairy  shipping. 

"  Ah !  "  cried  Miriam,  and  she  looked  at  Paul,  her  dark 
eyes  dilating.  He  smiled.  Together  they  enjoyed  the 
field  of  flowers.  Clara,  a  little  way  off,  was  looking  at  the 
cowslips  disconsolately.  Paul  and  Miriam  stayed  close 
together,  talking  in  subdued  tones.  He  kneeled  on  one 
knee,  quickly  gathering  the  best  blossoms,  moving  from 
tuft  to  tuft  restlessly,  talking  softly  all  the  time. 
Miriam  plucked  the  flowers  lovingly,  lingering  over  them. 
He  always  seemed  to  her  too  quick  and  almost  scientific. 
Yet  his  bunches  had  a  natural  beauty  more  than  hers. 


Defeat  of  Miriam  293 

He  loved  them,  but  as  if  they  were  his  and  he  had  a  right 
to  them.  She  had  more  reverence  for  them:  they  held 
something  she  had  not. 

The  flowers  were  very  fresh  and  sweet.  He  wanted  to 
drink  them.  As  he  gathered  them,  he  ate  the  little  yellow 
trumpets.  Clara  was  still  wandering  about  disconsolately. 
Going  towards  her,  he  said: 

"  Why  don't  you  get  some?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  in  it.     They  look  better  growing." 

"But  you'd  like  some?" 

"  They  want  to  be  left." 

"  I  don't  believe  they  do." 

"  I  don't  want  the  corpses  of  flowers  about  me,"  she 
said. 

"That's  a  stiff,  artificial  notion,"  he  said.  "They 
don't  die  any  quicker  in  water  than  on  their  roots.  And 
besides,  they  look  nice  in  a  bowl  —  they  look  jolly.  And 
you  only  call  a  thing  a  corpse  because  it  looks  corpse- 
like." 

"  Whether  it  is  one  or  not  ?  "  she  argued. 

"  It  is  n't  one  to  me.  A  dead  flower  is  n't  a  corpse  of 
a  flower." 

Clara  now  ignored  him. 

"  And  even  so  —  what  right  have  you  to  pull  them  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Because  I  like  them,  and  want  them  —  and  there  's 
plenty  of  them." 

"And  that  is   sufficient?" 

"  Yes.  Why  not  ?  I  'm  sure  they  'd  smell  nice  in  your 
room  in  Nottingham." 

"  And  I  should  have  the  pleasure  of  watching  them 
die." 

"  But  then  —  it  does  not  matter  if  they  do  die." 

Whereupon  he  left  her,  and  went  stooping  over  the 
clumps  of  tangled  flowers  which  thickly  sprinkled  the 
field  like  pale,  luminous  foam-clots.  Miriam  had  come 
close.  Clara  was  kneeling,  breathing  some  scent  from  the 
cowslips. 


294  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  I  think,"  said  Miriam,  "  if  you  treat  them  with  rever- 
ence you  don't  do  them  any  harm.  It  is  the  spirit  you 
pluck  them  in  that  matters." 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  But  no,  you  get  'em  because  you 
want  'em,  and  that 's  all."  He  held  out  his  bunch. 

Miriam  was  silent.     He  picked  some  more. 

"  Look  at  these !  "  he  continued ;  "  sturdy  and  lusty 
like  little  trees  and  like  boys  with  fat  legs." 

Clara's  hat  lay  on  the  grass  not  far  off.  She  was 
kneeling,  bending  forward  still  to  smell  the  flowers.  Her 
neck  gave  him  a  sharp  pang,  such  a  beautiful  thing,  yet 
not  proud  of  itself  just  now.  Her  breasts  swung  slightly 
in  her  blouse.  The  arching  curve  of  her  back  was  beau- 
tiful and  strong;  she  wore  no  stays.  Suddenly,  without 
knowing,  he  was  scattering  a  handful  of  cowslips  over 
her  hair  and  neck,  saying: 

"  Ashes  to  ashes,  and  dust  to  dust, 
If  the  Lord  won't  have  you  the  devil  must." 

The  chill  flowers  fell  on  her  neck.  She  looked  up  at  him 
with  almost  pitiful,  scared  grey  eyes,  wondering  what  he 
was  doing.  Flowers  fell  on  her  face,  and  she  shut  her 
eyes. 

Suddenly,  standing  there  above  her,  he  felt  awkward. 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  a  funeral,"  he  said,  ill  at  ease. 

Clara  laughed  strangely,  and  rose,  picking  the  cow- 
slips from  her  hair.  She  took  up  her  hat  and  pinned  it 
on.  One  flower  had  remained  tangled  in  her  hair.  He 
saw,  but  would  not  tell  her.  He  gathered  up  the  flowers 
he  had  sprinkled  over  her. 

At  the  edge  of  the  wood  the  bluebells  had  flowed  over 
into  the  field  and  stood  there  like  flood-water.  But  they 
were  fading  now.  Clara  strayed  up  to  them.  He  wan- 
dered after  her.  The  bluebells  pleased  him. 

"  Look  how  they  've  come  out  of  the  wood !  "  he  said. 

Then  she  turned  with  a  flash  of  warmth  and  of 
gratitude. 

"  Yes,"  she  smiled. 


Defeat  of  Miriam  295 

His  blood  beat  up. 

"  It  makes  me  think  of  the  wild  men  of  the  woods,  how 
terrified  they  would  be  when  they  got  breast  to  breast 
with  the  open  space." 

"Do  you  think  they  were?"  she  asked. 

"  I  wonder  which  was  more  frightened  among  old 
tribes  —  those  bursting  out  of  their  darkness  of  woods 
upon  all  the  space  of  light,  or  those  from  the  open  tip- 
toeing into  the  forests." 

"  I  should  think  the  second,"  she  answered. 

"  Yes,  you  do  feel  like  one  of  the  open  space  sort,  try- 
ing to  force  yourself  into  the  dark,  don't  you?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  "  she  answered  queerly. 

The  conversation  ended  there. 

The  evening  was  deepening  over  the  earth.  Already 
the  valley  was  full  of  shadow.  One  tiny  square  of  light 
stood  opposite  at  Crossleigh  Bank  Farm.  Brightness 
was  swimming  on  the  tops  of  the  hills.  Miriam  came  up 
slowly,  her  face  in  her  big,  loose  bunch  of  flowers,  walking 
ankle-deep  through  the  scattered  froth  of  the  cowslips. 
Beyond  her  the  trees  were  coming  into  shape,  all  shadow. 

"  Shall  we  go  ?  "  she  asked. 

And  the  three  turned  away.  They  were  all  silent. 
Going  down  the  path  they  could  see  the  light  of  home 
right  across,  and  on  the  ridge  of  the  hill  a  thin  dark 
outline  with  little  lights,  where  the  colliery  village  touched 
the  sky. 

"  It  has  been  nice,  has  n't  it?  "  he  asked. 

Miriam  murmured  assent.     Clara  was  silent. 

"  Don't  you  think  so  ?  "  he  persisted. 

But  she  walked  with  her  head  up,  and  still  did  not 
answer.  He  could  tell  by  the  way  she  moved,  as  if  she 
did  n't  care,  that  she  suffered. 

At  this  time  Paul  took  his  mother  to  Lincoln.  She 
was  bright  and  enthusiastic  as  ever,  but  as  he  sat  oppo- 
site her  in  the  railway  carriage,  she  seemed  to  look  frail. 
He  had  a  momentary  sensation  as  if  she  were  slipping 
away  from  him.  Then  he  wanted  to  get  hold  of  her, 


296  Sons  and  Lovers 

to  fasten  her,  almost  to  chain  her.  He  felt  he  must 
keep  hold  of  her  with  his  hand. 

They  drew  near  to  the  city.  Both  were  at  the  window 
looking  for  the  cathedral. 

"  There  she  is,  mother !  "  he  cried. 

They  saw  the  great  cathedral  lying  couchant  above  the 
plain. 

"  Ah !  "  she  exclaimed.     "  So  she  is !  " 

He  looked  at  his  mother.  Her  blue  eyes  were  watching 
the  cathedral  quietly.  She  seemed  again  to  be  beyond 
him.  Something  in  the  eternal  repose  of  the  uplifted 
cathedral,  blue  and  noble  against  the  sky,  was  reflected 
in  her,  something  of  the  fatality.  What  was,  was.  With 
all  his  young  will  he  could  not  alter  it.  He  saw  her  face, 
the  skin  still  fresh  and  pink  and  downy,  but  crow's-feet 
near  her  eyes,  her  eyelids  steady,  sinking  a  little,  her 
mouth  always  closed  with  disillusion ;  and  there  was  on 
her  the  same  eternal  look,  as  if  she  knew  fate  at  last. 
He  beat  against  it  with  all  the  strength  of  his  soul. 

"  Look,  mother,  how  big  she  is  above  the  town ! 
Think,  there  are  streets  and  streets  below  her !  She  looks 
bigger  than  the  city  altogether." 

"  So  she  does !  "  exclaimed  his  mother,  breaking  bright 
into  life  again.  But  he  had  seen  her  sitting,  looking 
steady  out  of  the  window  at  the  cathedral,  her  face  and 
eyes  fixed,  reflecting  the  relentlessness  of  life.  And  the 
crow's-feet  near  her  eyes,  and  her  mouth  shut  so  hard, 
made  him  feel  he  would  go  mad. 

They  ate  a  meal  that  she  considered  wildly  extravagant. 

"  Don't  imagine  I  like  it,"  she  said,  as  she  ate  her 
cutlet.  "  I  don't  like  it,  I  really  don't !  Just  think  of 
your  money  wasted !  " 

"  You  never  mind  my  money,"  he  said.  "  You  forget 
I  'm  a  fellow  taking  his  girl  for  an  outing." 

And  he  bought  her  some  blue  violets. 

"  Stop  it  at  once,  sir !  "  she  commanded.  "  How  can 
I  do  it?  " 

"  You  've  got  nothing  to  do.     Stand  still!  " 


Defeat  of  Miriam  297 

And  in  the  middle  of  High  Street  he  stuck  the  flowers 
in  her  coat. 

"  An  old  thing  like  me !  "  she  said,  sniffing. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  I  want  people  to  think  we  're 
awful  swells.  So  look  ikey." 

"  I  '11  jowl  your  head,"  she  laughed. 

"  Strut !  "  he  commanded.     "  Be  a  fantail  pigeon." 

It  took  him  an  hour  to  get  her  through  the  street.  She 
stood  above  Glory  Hole,  she  stood  before  Stone  Bow, 
she  stood  everywhere,  and  exclaimed. 

A  man  came  up,  took  off  his  hat,  and  bowed  to  her. 

"  Can  I  show  you  the  town,  madam?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  she  answered.     "  I  've  got  my  son." 

Then  Paul  was  cross  with  her  for  not  answering  with 
more  dignity. 

"  You  go  away  with  you !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Ha ! 
that 's  the  Jew's  House.  Now,  do  you  remember  that 
lecture,  Paul  —  ?  " 

But  she  could  scarcely  climb  the  cathedral  hill.  He 
did  not  notice.  Then  suddenly  he  found  her  unable  to 
speak.  He  took  her  into  a  little  public-house,  where  she 
rested. 

"  It 's  nothing,"  she  said.  "  My  heart  is  only  a  bit 
old;  one  must  expect  it." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  looked  at  her.  Again  his  heart 
was  crushed  in  a  hot  grip.  He  wanted  to  cry,  he  wanted 
to  smash  things  in  fury. 

They  set  off  again,  pace  by  pace,  so  slowly.  And 
every  step  seemed  like  a  weight  on  his  chest.  He  felt  as 
if  his  heart  would  burst.  At  last  they  came  to  the  top. 
She  stood  enchanted,  looking  at  the  castle  gate,  looking 
at  the  cathedral  front.  She  had  quite  forgotten  herself. 

"  Now  this  is  better  than  I  thought  it  could  be !  "  she 
cried. 

But  he  hated  it.  Everywhere  he  followed  her,  brood- 
ing. They  sat  together  in  the  cathedral.  They  attended 
a  little  service  in  the  choir.  She  was  timid. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  open  to  anybody?  "  she  asked  him. 


298  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.  "  Do  you  think  they  'd  have  the 
damned  cheek  to  send  us  away." 

"  Well,  I  'm  sure,"  she  exclaimed,  "  they  would  if  they 
heard  your  language." 

Her  face  seemed  to  shine  again  with  joy  and  peace 
during  the  service.  And  all  the  time  he  was  wanting  to 
rage  and  smash  things  and  cry. 

Afterwards,  when  they  were  leaning  over  the  wall,  look- 
ing at  the  town  below,  he  blurted  suddenly : 

"  Why  can't  a  man  have  a  young  mother  ?  What  is 
she  old  for?  " 

"  Well,"  his  mother  laughed,  "  she  can  scarcely  help 
it." 

"  And  why  was  n't  I  the  oldest  son  ?  Look  —  they  say 
the  young  ones  have  the  advantage  —  but  look,  they  had 
the  young  mother.  You  should  have  had  me  for  your 
eldest  son." 

"  /  did  n't  arrange  it,"  she  remonstrated.  "  Come  to 
consider,  you  're  as  much  to  blame  as  me." 

He  turned  on  her,  white,  his  eyes  furious. 

"  What  are  you  old  for ! "  he  said,  mad  with  his 
impotence.  "  Why  can't  you  walk?  Why  can't  you 
come  with  me  to  places?  " 

"  At  one  time,"  she  replied,  "  I  could  have  run  up  that 
hill  a  good  deal  better  than  you." 

"  What 's  the  good  of  that  to  me?  "  he  cried,  hitting 
his  fist  on  the  wall.  Then  he  became  plaintive.  "  It 's 
too  bad  of  you  to  be  ill,  Little,  it  is  —  " 

"  111 !  "  she  cried.  "  I  'm  a  bit  old,  and  you  '11  have  to 
put  up  with  it,  that 's  all." 

They  were  quiet.  But  it  was  as  much  as  they  could 
bear.  They  got  jolly  again  over  tea.  As  they  sat  by 
Brayford,  watching  the  boats,  he  told  her  about  Clara. 
His  mother  asked  him  innumerable  questions. 

"  Then  who  does  she  live  with?  " 

"  With  her  mother,  on  Bluebell  Hill." 

"  And  have  they  enough  to  keep  them  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so.     I  think  they  do  lace  work." 


'Defeat  of  Miriam  299 

"  And  wherein  lies  her  charm,  my  boy?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  she 's  charming,  mother.  But 
she  's  nice.  And  she  seems  straight,  you  know  —  not  a 
bit  deep,  not  a  bit." 

"  But  she  's  a  good  deal  older  than  you." 

"  She  's  thirty,  I  'm  going  of  twenty-three." 

"  You  have  n't  told  me  what  you  like  her  for." 

"  Because  I  don't  know  —  a  sort  of  defiant  way  she  's 
got  —  a  sort  of  angry  way." 

Mrs.  Morel  considered.  She  would  have  been  glad 
now  for  her  son  to  fall  in  love  with  some  woman  who 
would  —  she  did  not  know  what.  But  he  fretted  so,  got 
so  furious  suddenly,  and  again  was  melancholic.  She 
wished  he  knew  some  nice  woman  —  She  did  not  know 
what  she  wished,  but  left  it  vague.  At  any  rate  she  was 
not  hostile  to  the  idea  of  Clara. 

Annie,  too,  was  getting  married.  Leonard  had  gone 
away  to  work  in  Birmingham.  One  week-end  when  he 
was  home  she  had  said  to  him : 

"  You  don't  look  very  well,  my  lad." 

"  I  dunno,"  he  said.  "  I  feel  anyhow  or  nohow, 
ma." 

He  called  her  "  ma  "  already  in  his  boyish  fashion. 

"  Are  you  sure  they  're  good  lodgings  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes  —  yes.  Only  —  it 's  a  winder  when  you  have 
to  pour  your  own  tea  out  —  an'  nobody  to  grouse  if  you 
team  it  in  your  saucer  and  sup  it  up.  It  somehow  takes 
a'  the  taste  out  of  it." 

Mrs.  Morel  laughed. 

"  And  so  it  knocks  you  up?  "  she  said. 

"  I  dunno.  I  want  to  get  married,"  he  blurted,  twist- 
ing his  fingers  and  looking  down  at  his  boots.  There  was 
a  silence. 

"  But,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  thought  you  said  you  'd  wait 
another  year." 

"  Yes,  I  did  say  so,"  he  replied  stubbornly. 

Again  she  considered. 

"  And  you  know,"  she  said,  "  Annie  's  a  bit  of  a  spend- 


300  Sons  and  Lovers 

thrift.  She  's  saved  no  more  than  eleven  pounds.  And 
I  know,  lad,  you  have  n't  had  much  chance." 

He  coloured  up  to  the  ears. 

"  I  've  got  thirty-three  quid,"  he  said. 

"  It  does  n't  go  far,"  she  answered. 

He  said  nothing,  but  twisted  his  fingers. 

"  And  you  know,"  she  said,  "  I  've  nothing  —  ' 

"  I  did  n't  want,  ma !  "  he  cried,  very  red,  suffering  and 
remonstrating. 

"  No,  my  lad,  I  know.  I  was  only  wishing  I  had.  And 
take  away  five  pounds  for  the  wedding  and  things  —  it 
leaves  twenty-nine  pounds.  You  won't  do  much  on  that." 

He  twisted  still,  impotent,  stubborn,  not  looking  up. 

"But  do  you  really  want  to  get  married?  "  she  asked. 
"Do  you  feel  as  if  you  ought?  " 

He  gave  her  one  straight  look  from  his  blue  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"  Then,"  she  replied,  "  we  must  all  do  the  best  we  can 
for  it,  lad." 

The  next  time  he  looked  up  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  don't  want  Annie  to  feel  handicapped,"  he  said, 
struggling. 

"  My  lad,"  she  said,  "  you  're  steady  —  you  've  got  a 
decent  place.  If  a  man  had  needed  me  I  'd  have  married 
him  on  his  last  week's  wages.  She  may  find  it  a  bit  hard 
to  start  humbly.  Young  girls  are  like  that.  They  look 
forward  to  the  fine  home  they  think  they  '11  have.  But  / 
had  expensive  furniture.  It 's  not  everything." 

So  the  wedding  took  place  almost  immediately. 
Arthur  came  home,  and  was  splendid  in  uniform.  Annie 
looked  nice  in  a  dove-grey  dress  that  she  could  take  for 
Sundays.  Morel  called  her  a  fool  for  getting  married, 
and  was  cool  with  his  son-in-law.  Mrs.  Morel  had  white 
tips  in  her  bonnet,  and  some  white  on  her  blouse,  and 
was  teased  by  both  her  sons  for  fancying  herself  so 
grand.  Leonard  was  jolly  and  cordial,  and  felt  a  fearful 
fool.  Paul  could  not  quite  see  what  Annie  wanted  to  get 
married  for.  He  was  fond  of  her,  and  she  of  him.  Still, 


Defeat  of  Miriam  301 

he  hoped  rather  lugubriously  that  it  would  turn  out  all 
right.  Arthur  was  astonishingly  handsome  in  his  scarlet 
and  yellow,  and  he  knew  it  well,  but  was  secretly  ashamed 
of  the  uniform.  Annie  cried  her  eyes  up  in  the  kitchen,  on 
leaving  her  mother.  Mrs.  Morel  cried  a  little,  then  patted 
her  on  the  back  and  said: 

"  But  don't  cry,  child,  he  '11  be  good  to  you." 

Morel  stamped  and  said  she  was  a  fool  to  go  and  tie 
herself  up.  Leonard  looked  white  and  overwrought.  Mrs. 
Morel  said  to  him: 

"  I  s'll  trust  her  to  you,  my  lad,  and  hold  you  re- 
sponsible for  her." 

"  You  can,"  he  said,  nearly  dead  with  the  ordeal.  And 
it  was  all  over. 

When  Morel  and  Arthur  were  in  bed,  Paul  sat  talk- 
ing, as  he  often  did,  with  his  mother. 

"  You  're  not  sorry  she  's  married,  mother,  are  you?  " 
he  asked. 

"  I  'm  not  sorry  she  's  married  —  but  —  it  seems 
strange  that  she  should  go  from  me.  It  even  seems  to 
me  hard  that  she  can  prefer  to  go  with  her  Leonard. 
That 's  how  mothers  are  —  I  know  it 's  silly." 

"And  shall  you  be  miserable  about  her?" 

"  When  I  think  of  my  own  wedding  day,"  his  mother 
answered,  "  I  can  only  hope  her  life  will  be  different." 

"  But  you  can  trust  him  to  be  good  to  her?  " 

"  Yes,  yes.  They  say  he  's  not  good  enough  for  her. 
But  I  say  if  a  man  is  genuine,  as  he  is,  and  a  girl  is  fond 
of  him  —  then  —  it  should  be  all  right.  He  's  as  good 
as  she." 

"So  you  don't  mind?" 

"  I  would  never  have  let  a  daughter  of  mine  marry  a 
man  I  did  n't  feel  to  be  genuine  through  and  through. 
And  yet,  there  's  the  gap  now  she  's  gone." 

They  were  both  miserable,  and  wanted  her  back  again. 
It  seemed  to  Paul  his  mother  looked  lonely,  in  her  new 
black  silk  blouse  with  its  bit  of  white  trimming. 

"  At  any  rate,  mother,  I  s'll  never  marry,"  he  said. 


30£  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Ay,  they  all  say  that,  my  lad.  You  've  not  met  the 
one  yet.  Only  wait  a  year  or  two." 

"  But  I  shan't  marry,  mother.  I  shall  live  with  you, 
and  we  '11  have  a  servant." 

"  Ay,  my  lad,  it  's  easy  to  talk.  We  '11  see  when  the 
time  comes." 

"  What  time?     I  'm  nearly  twenty-three." 

"  Yes,  you  're  not  one  that  would  marry  young.  But 
in  three  years'  time  —  " 

"  I  shall  be  with  you  just  the  same." 

"  We  '11  see,  my  boy,  we  '11  see." 

"  But  you  don't  want  me  to  marry?  " 

"  I  should  n't  like  to  think  of  you  going  through  your 
life  without  anybody  to  care  for  you  and  do  —  no." 

"  And  you  think  I  ought  to  marry?  " 

"  Sooner  or  later  every  man  ought." 

"  But  you  'd  rather  it  were  later." 

"  It  would  be  hard  —  and  very  hard.  It 's  as  they 
say: 

" '  A  son 's  my  son  till  he  takes  him  a  wife, 

But  my  daughter 's  my  daughter  the  whole  of  her  life.'  " 

"  And  you  think  I  'd  let  a  wife  take  me  from  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  would  n't  ask  her  to  marry  your  mother 
as  well  as  you,"  Mrs.  Morel  smiled. 

"  She  could  do  what  she  liked ;  she  would  n't  have  to 
interfere." 

"  She  would  n't  —  till  she  'd  got  you  —  and  then  you  'd 
see." 

"  I  never  will  see.  I  '11  never  marry  while  I  've  got 
you  —  I  won't." 

"  But  I  should  n't  like  to  leave  you  with  nobody,  my 
boy,"  she  cried. 

"  You  're  not  going  to  leave  me.  What  are  you  ? 
Fifty-three !  I  '11  give  you  till  seventy-five.  There  you 
are,  I  'm  fat  and  forty-four.  Then  I  '11  marry  a  staid 
body.  See!" 

His  mother  sat  and  laughed. 


Defeat  of  Miriam  303 

"Go  to  bed,"  she  said  — "go  to  bed." 

"  And  we  '11  have  a  pretty  house,  you  and  me,  and  a 
servant,  and  it  '11  be  just  all  right.  I  s'll  perhaps  be 
rich  with  my  painting." 

"Will  you  go  to  bed!" 

"  And  then  you  s'll  have  a  pony-carriage.  See  your- 
self —  a  little  Queen  Victoria  trotting  round." 

"  I  tell  you  to  go  to  bed,"  she  laughed. 

He  kissed  her  and  went.  His  plans  for  the  future  were 
always  the  same. 

Mrs.  Morel  sat  brooding  —  about  her  daughter,  about 
Paul,  about  Arthur.  She  fretted  at  losing  Annie.  The 
family  was  very  closely  bound.  And  she  felt  she  must 
live  now,  to  be  with  her  children.  Life  was  so  rich  for 
her.  Paul  wanted  her,  and  so  did  Arthur.  Arthur  never 
knew  how  deeply  he  loved  her.  He  was  a  creature  of  the 
moment.  Never  yet  had  he  been  forced  to  realize  himself. 
The  army  had  disciplined  his  body,  but  not  vhis  soul.  He 
was  in  perfect  health  and  very  handsome.  His  dark, 
vigorous  hair  sat  close  to  his  smallish  head.  There  was 
something  childish  about  his  nose,  something  almost  girl- 
ish about  his  dark  blue  eyes.  But  he  had  the  full  red 
mouth  of  a  man  under  his  brown  moustache,  and  his  jaw 
was  strong.  It  was  his  father's  mouth;  it  was  the  nose 
and  eyes  of  her  own  mother's  people  —  good-looking, 
weak-principled  folk.  Mrs.  Morel  was  anxious  about  him. 
Once  he  had  really  run  the  rig  he  was  safe.  But  how 
far  would  he  go? 

The  army  had  not  really  done  him  any  good.  He  re- 
sented bitterly  the  authority  of  the  petty  officers.  He 
hated  having  to  obey  as  if  he  were  an  animal.  But  he 
had  too  much  sense  to  kick.  So  he  turned  his  attention 
to  getting  the  best  out  of  it.  He  could  sing,  he  was  a 
boon-companion.  Often  he  got  into  scrapes,  but  they 
were  the  manly  scrapes  that  are  easily  condoned.  So 
he  made  a  good  time  out  of  it,  whilst  his  self-respect  was 
in  suppression.  He  trusted  to  his  good  looks  and  hand- 
some figure,  his  refinement,  his  decent  education  to  get 


304  Sons  and  Lovers 

him  most  of  what  he  wanted,  and  he  was  not  disappointed. 
Yet  he  was  restless.  Something  seemed  to  gnaw  him 
inside.  He  was  never  still,  he  was  never  alone.  With  his 
mother  he  was  rather  humble.  Paul  he  admired  and  loved 
and  despised  slightly.  And  Paul  admired  and  loved  and 
despised  him  slightly. 

Mrs.  Morel  had  had  a  few  pounds  left  to  her  by  her 
father,  and  she  decided  to  buy  her  son  out  of  the  army. 
He  was  wild  with  joy.  Now  he  was  like  a  lad  taking  a 
holiday. 

He  had  always  been  fond  of  Beatrice  Wyld,  and  during 
his  furlough  he  picked  up  with  her  again.  She  was 
stronger  and  better  in  health.  The  two  often  went  long 
walks  together,  Arthur  taking  her  arm  in  soldier's  fash- 
ion, rather  stiffly.  And  she  came  to  play  the  piano  whilst 
he  sang.  Then  Arthur  would  unhook  his  tunic  collar. 
He  grew  flushed,  his  eyes  were  bright,  he  sang  in  a  manly 
tenor.  Afterwards  they  sat  together  on  the  sofa.  He 
seemed  to  flaunt  his  body :  she  was  aware  of  him  so  — 
the  strong  chest,  the  sides,  the  thighs  in  their  close-fitting 
trousers. 

He  liked  to  lapse  into  the  dialect  when  he  talked  to  her. 
She  would  sometimes  smoke  with  him.  Occasionally  she 
would  only  take  a  few  whiffs  of  his  cigarette. 

"  Nay,"  he  said  to  her  one  evening,  when  she  reached 
for  his  cigarette.  "  Nay,  tha  doesna.  I  '11  gi'e  thee  a 
smoke  kiss  if  ter  's  a  mind." 

"  I  wanted  a  whiff,  no  kiss  at  all,"  she  answered. 

"  Well,  an'  tha  s'lt  ha'e  a  whiff,"  he  said,  "  along  wi'  t' 
kiss." 

"  I  want  a  draw  at  thy  fag,"  she  cried,  snatching  for 
the  cigarette  between  his  lips. 

He  was  sitting  with  his  shoulder  touching  her.  She 
was  small  and  quick  as  lightning.  He  just  escaped. 

"  I  '11  gi'e  thee  a  smoke  kiss,"  he  said. 

"  Tha'rt  a  knivey  nuisance,  Arty  Morel,"  she  said, 
sitting  back. 

"Ha'e  a  smoke  kiss?" 


Defeat  of  Miriam  305 

The  soldier  leaned  forward  to  her,  smiling.  His  face 
was  near  hers. 

"  Shonna !  "  she  replied,  turning  away  her  head. 

He  took  a  draw  at  his  cigarette,  and  pursed  up  his 
mouth,  and  put  his  lips  close  to  her.  His  dark-brown 
cropped  moustache  stood  out  like  a  brush.  She  looked 
at  the  puckered  crimson  lips,  then  suddenly  snatched  the 
cigarette  from  his  fingers  and  darted  away.  He,  leaping 
after  her,  seized  the  comb  from  her  back  hair.  She 
turned,  threw  the  cigarette  at  him.  He  picked  it  up,  put 
it  in  his  mouth,  and  sat  down. 

"  Nuisance !  "  she  cried.     "  Give  me  my  comb !  " 

She  was  afraid  that  her  hair,  specially  done  for  him, 
would  come  down.  She  stood  with  her  hands  to  her 
head.  He  hid  the  comb  between  his  knees. 

"  I  've  non  got  it,"  he  said. 

The  cigarette  trembled  between  his  lips  with  laughter 
as  he  spoke. 

"Liar!"  she  said. 

"  'S  true  as  I  'm  here !  "  he  laughed,  showing  his  hands. 

"  You  brazen  imp  !  "  she  exclaimed,  rushing  and  scuffling 
for  the  comb,  which  he  had  under  his  knees.  As  she 
wrestled  with  him,  pulling  at  his  smooth,  tight-covered 
knees,  he  laughed  till  he  lay  back  on  the  sofa  shaking  with 
laughter.  The  cigarette  fell  from  his  mouth,  almost 
singeing  his  throat.  Under  his  delicate  tan  the  blood 
flushed  up,  and  he  laughed  till  his  blue  eyes  were  blinded, 
his  throat  swollen  almost  to  choking.  Then  he  sat  up. 
Beatrice  was  putting  in  her  comb. 

"  Tha  tickled  me,  Beat,"  he  said  thickly. 

Like  a  flash  her  small  white  hand  went  out  and  smacked 
his  face.  He  started  up,  glaring  at  her.  They  stared  at 
each  other.  Slowly  the  flush  mounted  her  cheek,  she 
dropped  her  eyes,  then  her  head.  He  sat  down  sulkily. 
She  went  into  the  scullery  to  adjust  her  hair.  In  private 
there  she  shed  a  few  tears,  she  did  not  know  what  for. 

When  she  returned  she  was  pursed  up  close.  But  it 
was  only  a  film  over  her  fire.  He,  with  ruffled  hair,  was 


306  Sons  and  Lovers 

sulking  upon  the  sofa.  She  sat  down  opposite,  in  the 
arm-chair,  and  neither  spoke.  The  clock  ticked  in  the 
silence  like  blows. 

"  You  are  a  little  cat,  Beat,"  he  said  at  length,  half 
apologetically. 

"  Well,  you  should  n't  be  brazen,"  she  replied. 

There  was  again  a  long  silence.  He  whistled  to  him- 
self, like  a  man  much  agitated  but  defiant.  Suddenly  she 
went  across  to  him  and  kissed  him. 

"  Did  it,  pore  fing !  "  she  mocked. 

He  lifted  his  face,  smiling  curiously. 

"Kiss?"  he  invited  her. 

"Daren't  I?"  she  asked. 

"  Go  on !  "  he  challenged,  his  mouth  lifted  to  her. 

Deliberately,  and  with  a  peculiar  quivering  smile  that 
seemed  to  overspread  her  whole  body,  she  put  her  mouth 
on  his.  Immediately  his  arms  folded  round  her.  As  soon 
as  the  long  kiss  was  finished  she  drew  back  her  head  from 
him,  put  her  delicate  fingers  on  his  neck,  through  the  open 
collar.  Then  she  closed  her  eyes,  giving  herself  up  again 
in  a  kiss. 

She  acted  of  her  own  free  will.  What  she  would  do 
she  did,  and  made  nobody  responsible. 

Paul  felt  life  changing  around  him.  The  conditions 
of  youth  were  gone.  Now  it  was  a  home  of  grown-up 
people.  Annie  was  a  married  woman,  Arthur  was  follow- 
ing his  own  pleasure  in  a  way  unknown  to  his  folk.  For 
so  long  they  had  all  lived  at  home,  and  gone  out  to  pass 
their  time.  But  now,  for  Annie  and  Arthur,  life  lay  out- 
side their  mother's  house.  They  came  home  for  holiday 
and  for  rest.  So  there  was  that  strange,  half-empty 
feeling  about  the  house,  as  if  the  birds  had  flown.  Paul 
became  more  and  more  unsettled.  Annie  and  Arthur  had 
gone.  He  was  restless  to  follow.  Yet  home  was  for  him 
beside  his  mother.  And  still  there  was  something  else, 
something  outside,  something  he  wanted. 

He   grew   more   and   more   restless.      Miriam   did   not 


Defeat  of  Miriam  307 

satisfy  him.  His  old  mad  desire  to  be  with  her  grew 
weaker.  Sometimes  he  met  Clara  in  Nottingham,  some- 
times he  went  to  meetings  with  her,  sometimes  he  saw 
her  at  Willey  Farm.  But  on  these  last  occasions  the 
situation  became  strained.  There  was  a  triangle  of 
antagonism  between  Paul  and  Clara  and  Miriam.  With 
Clara  he  took  on  a  smart,  worldly,  mocking  tone  very 
antagonistic  to  Miriam.  It  did  not  matter  what  went 
before.  She  might  be  intimate  and  sad  with  him.  Then 
as  soon  as  Clara  appeared,  it  all  vanished,  and  he  played 
to  the  newcomer. 

Miriam  had  one  beautiful  evening  with  him  in  the  hay. 
He  had  been  on  the  horse-rake,  and,  having  finished,  came 
to  help  her  to  put  the  hay  in  cocks.  Then  he  talked  to 
her  of  his  hopes  and  despairs,  and  his  whole  soul  seemed 
to  lie  bare  before  her.  She  felt  as  if  she  watched  the 
very  quivering  stuff  of  life  in  him.  The  moon  came  out: 
they  walked  home  together:  he  seemed  to  have  come  to 
her  because  he  needed  her  so  badly,  and  she  listened  to 
him,  gave  him  all  her  love  and  her  faith.  It  seemed  to 
her  he  brought  her  the  best  of  himself  to  keep,  and  that 
she  would  guard  it  all  her  life.  Nay,  the  sky  did  not 
cherish  the  stars  more  surely  and  eternally  than  she 
would  guard  the  good  in  the  soul  of  Paul  Morel.  She 
went  on  home  alone  feeling  exalted,  glad  in  her  faith. 

And  then,  the  next  day,  Clara  came.  They  were  to 
have  tea  in  the  hayfield.  Miriam  watched  the  evening 
drawing  to  gold  and  shadow.  And  all  the  time  Paul  was 
sporting  with  Clara.  He  made  higher  and  higher  heaps 
of  hay  that  they  were  jumping  over.  Miriam  did  not 
care  for  the  game,  and  stood  aside.  Edgar  and  Geoffrey 
and  Maurice  and  Clara  and  Paul  jumped.  Paul  won, 
because  he  was  light.  Clara's  blood  was  roused.  She 
could  run  like  an  Amazon.  Paul  loved  the  determined 
way  she  rushed  at  the  haycock  and  leaped,  landed  on  the 
other  side,  her  breasts  shaken,  her  thick  hair  coming 
undone. 

"  You  touched !  "  he  cried.     "  You  touched !  " 


308  Sons  and  Lovers 

"No!"  she  flashed,  turning  to  Edgar.  "I  didn't 
touch,  did  I?  Wasn't  I  clear?" 

66 1  could  n't  say,"  laughed  Edgar. 

None  of  them  could  say. 

"  But  you  touched,"  said  Paul.     "  You  're  beaten." 

"  I  did  not  touch !  "  she  cried. 

"  As  plain  as  anything,"  said  Paul. 

"  Box  his  ears  for  me !  "  she  cried  to  Edgar. 

"  Nay,"  Edgar  laughed.  "  I  dare  n't.  You  must  do  it 
yourself." 

"  And  nothing  can  alter  the  fact  that  you  touched," 
laughed  Paul. 

She  was  furious  with  him.  Her  little  triumph  before 
these  lads  and  men  was  gone.  She  had  forgotten  herself 
in  the  game.  Now  he  was  to  humble  her. 

"  I  think  you  are  despicable !  "  she  said. 

And  again  he  laughed,  in  a  way  that  tortured  Miriam. 

"  And  I  knew  you  could  n't  jump  that  heap,"  he  teased. 

She  turned  her  back  on  him.  Yet  everybody  could  see 
that  the  only  person  she  listened  to,  or  was  conscious  of, 
was  he,  and  he  of  her.  It  pleased  the  men  to  see  this 
battle  between  them.  But  Miriam  was  tortured. 

Paul  could  choose  the  lesser  in  place  of  the  higher,  she 
saw.  He  could  be  unfaithful  to  himself,  unfaithful  to  the 
real,  deep  Paul  Morel.  There  was  a  danger  of  his  be- 
coming frivolous,  of  his  running  after  his  satisfactions 
like  any  Arthur,  or  like  his  father.  It  made  Miriam  bitter 
to  think  that  he  should  throw  away  his  soul  for  this 
flippant  traffic  of  triviality  with  Clara.  She  walked  in 
bitterness  and  silence,  while  the  other  two  rallied  each 
other,  and  Paul  sported. 

And  afterwards,  he  would  not  own  it,  but  he  was  rather 
ashamed  of  himself,  and  prostrated  himself  before  Miriam. 
Then  again  he  rebelled. 

"  It 's  not  religious  to  be  religious,"  he  said.  "  I 
reckon  a  crow  is  religious  when  it  sails  across  the  sky. 
But  it  only  does  it  because  it  feels  itself  carried  to  where 
it 's  going,  not  because  it  thinks  it  is  being  eternal." 


Defeat  of  Miriam  309 

But  Miriam  knew  that  one  should  be  religious  in  every- 
thing, have  God,  whatever  God  might  be,  present  in  every- 
thing. 

"  I  don't  believe  God  knows  such  a  lot  about  Himself," 
he  cried.  "  God  does  n't  know  things,  He  is  things.  And 
I  'm  sure  He  's  not  soulful." 

And  then  it  seemed  to  her  that  Paul  was  arguing  God 
on  to  his  own  side,  because  he  wanted  his  own  way  and 
his  own  pleasure.  There  was  a  long  battle  between  him 
and  her.  He  was  utterly  unfaithful  to  her  even  in  her 
own  presence;  then  he  was  ashamed,  then  repentant; 
then  he  hated  her,  and  went  off  again.  Those  were  the 
ever-recurring  conditions. 

She  fretted  him  to  the  bottom  of  his  soul.  There  she 
remained  —  sad,  pensive,  a  worshipper.  And  he  caused 
her  sorrow.  Half  the  time  he  grieved  for  her,  half  the 
time  he  hated  her.  She  was  his  conscience;  and  he  felt, 
somehow,  he  had  got  a  conscience  that  was  too  much  for 
him.  He  could  not  leave  her,  because  in  one  way  she  did 
hold  the  best  of  him.  He  could  not  stay  with  her  because 
she  did  not  take  the  rest  of  him,  which  was  three-quarters. 
So  he  chafed  himself  into  rawness  over  her. 

When  she  was  twenty-one  he  wrote  her  a  letter  which 
could  only  have  been  written  to  her. 

"  May  I  speak  of  our  old,  worn  love,  this  last  time. 
It,  too,  is  changing,  is  it  not?  Say,  has  not  the  body 
of  that  love  died,  and  left  you  its  invulnerable  soul?  You 
see,  I  can  give  you  a  spirit  love,  I  have  given  it  you  this 
long,  long  time;  but  not  embodied  passion.  See,  you 
are  a  nun.  I  have  given  you  what  I  would  give  a  holy 
nun  —  as  a  mystic  monk  to  a  mystic  nun.  Surely  you 
esteem  it  best.  Yet  you  regret  —  no,  have  regretted  — 
the  other.  In  all  our  relations  no  body  enters.  I  do  not 
talk  to  you  through  the  senses  —  rather  through  the 
spirit.  That  is  why  we  cannot  love  in  the  common  sense. 
Ours  is  not  an  everyday  affection.  As  yet  we  are  mortal, 
and  to  live  side  by  side  with  one  another  would  be  dread- 


310  Sons  and  Lovers 

ful,  for  somehow  with  you  I  cannot  long  be  trivial,  and, 
you  know,  to  be  always  beyond  this  mortal  state  would 
be  to  lose  it.  If  people  marry,  they  must  live  together 
as  affectionate  humans,  who  may  be  commonplace  with 
each  other  without  feeling  awkward  —  not  as  two  souls. 
So  I  feel  it. 

"  Ought  I  to  send  this  letter  —  I  doubt  it.  But  there 
—  it  is  best  to  understand.  Au  revoir." 

Miriam  read  this  letter  twice,  after  which  she  sealed  it 
up.  A  year  later  she  broke  the  seal  to  show  her  mother 
the  letter. 

"  You  are  a  nun  —  you  are  a  nun."  The  words  went 
into  her  heart  again  and  again.  Nothing  he  ever  had 
said  had  gone  into  her  so  deeply,  fixedly,  like  a  mortal 
wound. 

She  answered  two  days  after  the  paity. 

"  '  Our  intimacy  would  have  been  all-beautiful  but  for  one 
little  mistake,'  "  she  quoted.  "  Was  the  mistake  mine  ?  " 

Almost  immediately  he  replied  to  her  from  Nottingham, 
sending  her  at  the  same  time  a  little  "  Omar  Khayyam." 

"  I  am  glad  you  answered ;  you  are  so  calm  and  natural 
you  put  me  to  shame.  What  a  ranter  I  am!  We  are 
often  out  of  sympathy.  But  in  fundamentals  we  may 
always  be  together,  I  think. 

"  I  must  thank  you  for  your  sympathy  with  my  paint- 
ing and  drawing.  Many  a  sketch  is  dedicated  to  you. 
I  do  look  forward  to  your  criticisms,  which,  to  my  shame 
and  glory,  are  always  grand  appreciations.  It  is  a  lovely 
joke,  that.  Au  revoir." 

This  was  the  end  of  the  first  phase  of  Paul's  love- 
affair.  He  was  now  about  twenty-three  years  old,  and, 
though  still  virgin,  the  sex  instinct  that  Miriam  had 
over-refined  for  so  long  now  grew  particularly  strong. 
Often,  as  he  talked  to  Clara  Dawes,  came  that  thicken- 
ing and  quickening  of  his  blood,  that  peculiar  concentra- 


Defeat  of  Miriam  311 

tion  in  the  breast,  as  if  something  were  alive  there,  a 
new  self  or  a  new  centre  of  consciousness,  warning  him 
that  sooner  or  later  he  would  have  to  ask  one  woman  or 
another.  But  he  belonged  to  Miriam.  Of  that  she  was 
so  fixedly  sure  that  he  allowed  her  right. 


CHAPTER    X 

CLARA 

T  }1  THEN  he  was  twenty- three  years  old  Paul  sent  in 
V  V  a  landscape  to  the  winter  exhibition  at  Nottingham 
Castle.  Miss  Jordan  had  taken  a  good  deal  of  interest  in 
him,  had  invited  him  to  her  house,  where  he  met  other 
artists.  He  was  beginning  to  grow  ambitious. 

One  morning  the  postman  came  just  as  he  was  wash- 
ing in  the  scullery.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  wild  noise  from 
his  mother.  Rushing  into  the  kitchen,  he  found  her 
standing  on  the  hearthrug  wildly  waving  a  letter  and 
crying  "  Hurrah !  "  as  if  she  had  gone  mad.  He  was 
shocked  and  frightened. 

"  Why,  mother !  "  he  exclaimed. 

She  flew  to  him,  flung  her  arms  round  him  for  a  moment, 
then  waved  the  letter,  crying: 

"  Hurrah,  my  boy !    I  knew  we  should  do  it !  " 

He  was  afraid  of  her  —  the  small,  severe  woman  with 
greying  hair  suddenly  bursting  out  in  such  frenzy.  The 
postman  came  running  back,  afraid  something  had  hap- 
pened. They  saw  his  tipped  cap  over  the  short  curtain. 
Mrs.  Morel  rushed  to  the  door. 

"  His  picture  's  got  first  prize,  Fred,"  she  cried,  "  and 
is  sold  for  twenty  guineas." 

"  My  word,  that 's  something  like !  "  said  the  young 
postman,  whom  they  had  known  all  his  life. 

"  And  Major  Moreton  has  bought  it!  "  she  cried. 

"  It  looks  like  meanin'  something,  that  does,  Mrs. 
Morel,"  said  the  postman,  his  blue  eyes  bright.  He  was 
glad  to  have  brought  such  a  lucky  letter.  Mrs.  Morel 
went  indoors  and  sat  down,  trembling.  Paul  was  afraid 
lest  she  might  have  misread  the  letter,  and  might  be  disap- 


Clara  313 

pointed  after  all.  He  scrutinized  it  once,  twice.  Yes,  he 
became  convinced  it  was  true.  Then  he  sat  down,  his 
heart  beating  with  joy. 

"  Mother !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Did  n't  I  say  we  should  do  it !  "  she  said,  pretending 
she  was  not  crying. 

He  took  the  kettle  off  the  fire  and  mashed  the  tea. 

"  You  did  n't  think,  mother  —  "  he  began  tentatively. 

"  No,  my  son  —  not  so  much  —  but  I  expected  a  good 
deal." 

"  But  not  so  much,"  he  said. 

"  No  —  no  —  but  I  knew  we  should  do  it." 

And  then  she  recovered  her  composure,  apparently  at 
least.  He  sat  with  his  shirt  turned  back,  showing  his 
young  throat  almost  like  a  girl's,  and  the  towel  in  his 
hand,  his  hair  sticking  up  wet. 

"Twenty  guineas,  mother!  That's  just  what  you 
wanted  to  buy  Arthur  out.  Now  you  needn't  borrow 
any.  It  '11  just  do." 

"  Indeed,  I  shan't  take  it  all,"  she  said. 

"But  why?" 

66  Because  I  shan't." 

"  Well  —  you  have  twelve  pounds,  I  '11  have  nine." 

They  cavilled  about  sharing  the  twenty  guineas.  She 
wanted  to  take  only  the  five  pounds  she  needed.  He 
would  not  hear  of  it.  So  they  got  over  the  stress  of 
emotion  by  quarrelling. 

Morel  came  home  at  night  from  the  pit,  saying: 

"  They  tell  me  Paul 's  got  first  prize  for  his  picture, 
and  sold  it  to  Lord  Henry  Bentley  for  fifty  pound." 

"  Oh,  what  stories  people  do  tell !  "  she  cried. 

"  Ha !  "  he  answered.  "  I  said  I  wor  sure  it  wor  a  lie. 
But  they  said  tha  'd  told  Fred  Hodgkisson." 

"  As  if  I  would  tell  him  such  stuff!  " 

"  Ha !  "  assented  the  miner. 

But  he  was  disappointed  nevertheless. 

"  It 's  true  he  has  got  the  first  prize,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

The  miner  sat  heavily  in  his  chair. 


314  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Has  he,  beguy !  "  he  exclaimed. 

He  stared  across  the  room  fixedly. 

"  But  as  for  fifty  pounds  —  such  nonsense !  "  She 
was  silent  awhile.  "  Major  Moreton  bought  it  for  twenty 
guineas,  that 's  true." 

"  Twenty  guineas !    Tha  niver  says !  "  exclaimed  Morel. 

"  Yes,  and  it  was  worth  it." 

"  Ay !  "  he  said.  "  I  don't  misdoubt  it.  But  twenty 
guineas  for  a  bit  of  a  paintin'  as  he  knocked  off  in  an 
hour  or  two !  " 

He  was  silent  with  conceit  of  his  son.  Mrs.  Morel 
sniffed,  as  if  it  were  nothing. 

"  And  when  does  he  handle  th'  money?  "  asked  the 
collier. 

"  That  I  could  n't  tell  you.  When  the  picture  is  sent 
home,  I  suppose." 

There  was  silence.  Morel  stared  at  the  sugar-basin 
instead  of  eating  his  dinner.  His  black  arm,  with  the 
hand  all  gnarled  with  work,  lay  on  the  table.  His  wife 
pretended  not  to  see  him  rub  the  back  of  his  hand  across 
his  eyes,  nor  the  smear  in  the  coal-dust  on  his  black 
face. 

"  Yes,  an'  that  other  lad  'ud  'a  done  as  much  if  they 
hadna  ha'  killed  'im,"  he  said  quietly. 

The  thought  of  William  went  through  Mrs.  Morel  like 
a  cold  blade.  It  left  her  feeling  she  was  tired,  and  wanted 
rest. 

Paul  was  invited  to  dinner  at  Mr.  Jordan's.  After- 
wards he  said: 

"  Mother,  I  want  an  evening  suit." 

"  Yes,  I  was  afraid  you  would,"  she  said.  She  was 
glad.  There  was  a  moment  or  two  of  silence.  "  There  's 
that  one  of  William's,"  she  continued,  "  that  I  know  cost 
four  pounds  ten  and  which  he  'd  only  worn  three  times." 

"  Should  you  like  me  to  wear  it,  mother?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes.  I  think  it  would  fit  you  —  at  least  the  coat. 
The  trousers  would  want  shortening." 

He   went    upstairs    and    put    on    the    coat    and    vest. 


Clara  315 

Coming  down,  he  looked  strange  in  a  flannel  collar  and  a 
flannel  shirt-front,  with  an  evening  coat  and  vest.  It 
was  rather  large. 

"  The  tailor  can  make  it  right,"  she  said,  smoothing  her 
hand  over  his  shoulder.  "  It 's  beautiful  stuff.  I  never 
could  find  in  my  heart  to  let  your  father  wear  the  trou- 
sers, and  very  glad  I  am  now." 

And  as  she  smoothed  her  hand  over  the  silk  collar  she 
thought  of  her  eldest  son.  But  this  son  was  living  enough 
inside  the  clothes.  She  passed  her  hand  down  his  back  to 
feel  him.  He  was  alive  and  hers.  The  other  was  dead. 

He  went  out  to  dinner  several  times  in  his  evening  suit 
that  had  been  William's.  Each  time  his  mother's  heart 
was  firm  with  pride  and  joy.  He  was  started  now.  The 
studs  she  and  the  children  had  bought  for  William  were 
in  his  shirt-front;  he  wore  one  of  William's  dress  shirts. 
But  he  had  an  elegant  figure.  His  face  was  rough,  but 
warm-looking  and  rather  pleasing.  He  did  not  look  par- 
ticularly a  gentleman,  but  she  thought  he  looked  quite  a 
man. 

He  told  her  everything  that  took  place,  everything  that 
was  said.  It  was  as  if  she  had  been  there.  And  he  was 
dying  to  introduce  her  to  these  new  friends  who  had 
dinner  at  seven-thirty  in  the  evening. 

"  Go  along  with  you !  "  she  said.  "  What  do  they  want 
to  know  me  for?  " 

"  They  do !  "  he  cried  indignantly.  "  If  they  want  to 
know  me  —  and  they  say  they  do  —  then  they  want  to 
know  you,  because  you  are  quite  as  clever  as  I  am." 

"  Go  along  with  you,  child !  "  she  laughed. 

But  she  began  to  spare  her  hands.  They,  too,  were 
work-gnarled  now.  The  skin  was  shiny  with  so  much 
hot  water,  the  knuckles  rather  swollen.  But  she  began 
to  be  careful  to  keep  them  out  of  soda.  She  regretted 
what  they  had  been  —  so  small  and  exquisite.  And  when 
Annie  insisted  on  her  having  more  stylish  blouses  to  suit 
her  age,  she  submitted.  She  even  went  so  far  as  to  allow 
a  black  velvet  bow  to  be  placed  on  her  hair.  Then  she 


316  Sons  and  Lovers 

sniffed  in  her  sarcastic  manner,  and  was  sure  she  looked 
a  sight.  But  she  looked  a  lady,  Paul  declared,  as  much 
as  Mrs.  Major  Moreton,  and  far,  far  nicer.  The  family 
was  coming  on.  Only  Morel  remained  unchanged,  or 
rather,  lapsed  slowly. 

Paul  and  his  mother  now  had  long  discussions  about 
life.  Religion  was  fading  into  the  background.  He  had 
shovelled  away  all  the  beliefs  that  would  hamper  him, 
had  cleared  the  ground,  and  come  more  or  less  to  the 
bedrock  of  belief  that  one  should  feel  inside  oneself  for 
right  and  wrong,  and  should  have  the  patience  to  gradu- 
ally realize  one's  God.  Now  life  interested  him  more. 

"  You  know,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  "  I  don't  want  to 
belong  to  the  well-to-do  middle  class.  I  like  my  common 
people  best.  I  belong  to  the  common  people." 

"  But  if  anyone  else  said  so,  my  son,  would  n't  you  be 
in  a  tear!  You  know  you  consider  yourself  equal  to  any 
gentleman." 

"  In  myself,"  he  answered,  "  not  in  my  class  or  my 
education  or  my  manners.  But  in  myself  I  am." 

"  Very  well,  then.  Then  why  talk  about  the  common 
people?  " 

"  Because  —  the  difference  between  people  is  n't  in  their 
class,  but  in  themselves.  Only  from  the  middle  classes 
one  gets  ideas,  and  from  the  common  people  —  life  itself, 
warmth.  You  feel  their  hates  and  loves." 

"  It 's  all  very  well,  my  boy.  But,  then,  why  don't 
you  go  and  talk  to  your  fathers  pals?  " 

"  But  they  're  rather  different." 

"  Not  at  all.  They  're  the  common  people.  After  all, 
whom  do  you  mix  with  now  —  among  the  common  people  ? 
Those  that  exchange  ideas,  like  the  middle  classes.  The 
rest  don't  interest  you." 

"  But  —  there  's  the  life  —  " 

"  I  don't  believe  there  's  a  j  ot  more  life  from  Miriam 
than  you  could  get  from  any  educated  girl  —  say  Miss 
Moreton.  It  is  you  who  are  snobbish  about  class." 

She  frankly  wanted  him  to  climb  into  the  middle  classes, 


Clara  317 

a  thing  not  very  difficult,  she  knew.  And  she  wanted 
him  in  the  end  to  marry  a  lady. 

Now  she  began  to  combat  him  in  his  restless  fretting. 
He  still  kept  up  his  connection  with  Miriam,  could  neither 
break  free  nor  go  the  whole  length  of  engagement.  And 
this  indecision  seemed  to  bleed  him  of  his  energy.  More- 
over, his  mother  suspected  him  of  an  unrecognized  lean- 
ing towards  Clara,  and,  since  the  latter  was  a  married 
woman,  she  wished  he  would  fall  in  love  with  one  of  the 
girls  in  a  better  station  of  life.  But  he  was  stupid,  and 
would  refuse  to  love  or  even  to  admire  a  girl  much,  just 
because  she  was  his  social  superior. 

"  My  boy,"  said  his  mother  to  him,  "  all  your  clever- 
ness, your  breaking  away  from  old  things,  and  taking 
life  in  your  own  hands,  does  n't  seem  to  bring  you  much 
happiness." 

"  What  is  happiness !  "  he  cried.  "  It 's  nothing  to 
me !  How  am  I  to  be  happy  ?  " 

The  plump  question  disturbed  her. 

"  That  's  for  you  to  judge,  my  lad.  But  if  you  could 
meet  some  good  woman  who  would  make  you  happy  — 
and  you  began  to  think  of  settling  your  life  —  when  you 
have  the  means  —  so  that  you  could  work  without  all 
this  fretting  —  it  would  be  much  better  for  you." 

He  frowned.  His  mother  caught  him  on  the  raw  of 
his  wound  of  Miriam.  He  pushed  the  tumbled  hair  off 
his  forehead,  his  eyes  full  of  pain  and  fire. 

"  You  mean  easy,  mother,"  he  cried.  "  That 's  a 
woman's  whole  doctrine  for  life  —  ease  of  soul  and  physi- 
cal comfort.  And  I  do  despise  it." 

"  Oh,  do  you !  "  replied  his  mother.  "  And  do  you  call 
yours  a  divine  discontent?  " 

"  Yes.  I  don't  care  about  its  divinity.  But  damn 
your  happiness !  So  long  as  life  's  full,  it  does  n't  matter 
whether  it  's  happy  or  not.  I  'm  afraid  your  happiness 
would  bore  me." 

"  You  never  give  it  a  chance,"  she  said.  Then  sud- 
denly all  her  passion  of  grief  over  him  broke  out.  "  But 


318  Sons  and  Lovers 

it  does  matter !  "  she  cried.  "  And  you  ought  to  be 
happy,  you  ought  to  try  to  be  happy,  to  live  to  be 
happy.  How  could  I  bear  to  think  your  life  would  n't 
be  a  happy  one !  " 

"  Your  own  's  been  bad  enough,  mater,  but  it  has  n't 
left  you  so  much  worse  off  than  the  folk  who  've  been 
happier.  I  reckon  you  've  done  well.  And  I  am  the 
same.  Are  n't  I  well  enough  off?  " 

"  You  're  not,  my  son.  Battle  —  battle  —  and  suffer. 
It 's  about  all  you  do,  as  far  as  I  can  see." 

"  But  why  not,  my  dear?     I  tell  you  it 's  the  best  —  " 

"  It  is  n't.     And  one  ought  to  be  happy,  one  ought." 

By  this  time  Mrs.  Morel  was  trembling  violently. 
Struggles  of  this  kind  often  took  place  between  her  and 
her  son,  when  she  seemed  to  fight  for  his  very  life  against 
his  own  will  to  die.  He  took  her  in  his  arms.  She  was 
ill  and  pitiful. 

"  Never  mind,  Little,"  he  murmured.  "  So  long  as 
you  don't  feel  life  's  paltry  and  a  miserable  business,  the 
rest  does  n't  matter,  happiness  or  unhappiness." 

She  pressed  him  to  her. 

"  But  I  want  you  to  be  happy,"  she  said  pathetically. 

"  Eh,  my  dear  —  say  rather  you  want  me  to  live." 

Mrs.  Morel  felt  as  if  her  heart  would  break  for  him. 
At  this  rate  she  knew  he  would  not  live.  He  had  that 
poignant  carelessness  about  himself,  his  own  suffering, 
his  own  life,  which  is  a  form  of  slow  suicide.  It  almost 
broke  her  heart.  With  all  the  passion  of  her  strong 
nature  she  hated  Miriam  for  having  in  this  subtle  way 
undermined  his  joy.  It  did  not  matter  to  her  that 
Miriam  could  not  help  it.  Miriam  did  it,  and  she  hated 
her. 

She  wished  so  much  he  would  fall  in  love  with  a  girl 
equal  to  be  his  mate  —  educated  and  strong.  But  he 
would  not  look  at  anybody  above  him  in  station.  He 
seemed  to  like  Mrs.  Dawes.  At  any  rate  that  feeling  was 
wholesome.  His  mother  prayed  and  prayed  for  him,  that 
he  might  not  be  wasted.  That  was  all  her  prayer  —  not 


Clara  319 

for  his  soul  or  his  righteousness,  but  that  he  might  not 
be  wasted.  And  while  he  slept,  for  hours  and  hours  she 
thought  and  prayed  for  him. 

He  drifted  away  from  Miriam  imperceptibly,  without 
knowing  he  was  going.  Arthur  only  left  the  army  to  be 
married.  The  baby  was  born  six  months  after  his 
wedding.  Mrs.  Morel  got  him  a  job  under  the  firm  again, 
at  twenty-one  shillings  a  week.  She  furnished  for  him, 
with  the  help  of  Beatrice's  mother,  a  little  cottage  of 
two  rooms.  He  was  caught  now.  It  did  not  matter  how 
he  kicked  and  struggled,  he  was  fast.  For  a  time  he 
chafed,  was  irritable  with  his  young  wife,  who  loved  him ; 
he  went  almost  distracted  when  the  baby,  which  was 
delicate,  cried  or  gave  trouble.  He  grumbled  for  hours 
to  his  mother.  She  only  said,  "  Well,  my  lad,  you  did 
it  yourself,  now  you  must  make  the  best  of  it."  And 
then  the  grit  came  out  in  him.  He  buckled  to  work, 
undertook  his  responsibilities,  acknowledged  that  he  be- 
longed to  his  wife  and  child,  and  did  make  a  good  best 
of  it.  He  had  never  been  very  closely  inbound  into  the 
family.  Now  he  was  gone  altogether. 

The  months  went  slowly  along.  Paul  had  more  or  less 
got  into  connection  with  the  Socialist,  Suifragette,  Uni- 
tarian people  in  Nottingham,  owing  to  his  acquaintance 
with  Clara.  One  day  a  friend  of  his  and  of  Clara's,  in 
Bestwood,  asked  him  to  take  a  message  to  Mrs.  Dawes. 
He  went  in  the  evening  across  Sneinton  Market  to  Blue- 
bell Hill.  He  found  the  house  in  a  mean  little  street 
paved  with  granite  cobbles  and  having  causeways  of  dark 
blue,  grooved  bricks.  The  front-door  went  up  a  step 
from  off  this  rough  pavement,  where  the  feet  of  the 
passers-by  rasped  and  clattered.  The  brown  paint  on 
the  door  was  so  old  that  the  naked  wood  showed  between 
the  rents.  He  stood  on  the  street  below  and  knocked. 
There  came  a  heavy  footstep ;  a  large,  stout  woman  of 
about  sixty  towered  above  him.  He  looked  up  at  her 
from  the  pavement.  She  had  a  rather  severe  face. 

She  admitted  him  into  the  parlour,  which  opened  on  to 


320  Sons  and  Lovers 

the  street.  It  was  a  small,  stuffy,  defunct  room,  of 
mahogany,  and  deathly  enlargements  of  photographs  of 
departed  people  done  in  carbon.  Mrs.  Radford  left  him. 
She  was  stately,  almost  martial.  In  a  moment  Clara 
appeared.  She  flushed  deeply,  and  he  was  covered  with 
confusion.  It  seemed  as  if  she  did  not  like  being  dis- 
covered in  her  home  circumstances. 

"  I  thought  it  could  n't  be  your  voice,"  she  said. 

But  she  might  as  well  be  hung  for  a  sheep  as  for  a 
lamb.  She  invited  him  out  of  the  mausoleum  of  a  parlour 
into  the  kitchen. 

That  was  a  little,  darkish  room  too,  but  it  was  smoth- 
ered in  white  lace.  The  mother  had  seated  herself  again 
by  the  cupboard,  and  was  drawing  thread  from  a  vast 
web  of  lace.  A  clump  of  fluff  and  ravelled  cotton  was  at 
her  right  hand,  a  heap  of  three-quarter-inch  lace  lay  on 
her  left,  whilst  in  front  of  her  was  the  mountain  of  the 
lace  web,  piling  the  hearthrug.  Threads  of  curly  cotton, 
pulled  out  from  between  the  lengths  of  lace,  strewed  over 
the  fender  and  the  fireplace.  Paul  dared  not  go  for- 
ward, for  fear  of  treading  on  piles  of  white  stuff. 

On  the  table  was  a  jenny  for  carding  the  lace.  There 
was  a  pack  of  brown  cardboard  squares,  a  pack  of  cards 
of  lace,  a  little  box  of  pins,  and  on  the  sofa  lay  a  heap  of 
drawn  lace. 

The  room  was  all  lace,  and  it  was  so  dark  and  warm 
that  the  white,  snowy  stuff  seemed  the  more  distinct. 

"  If  you  're  coming  in  you  won't  have  to  mind  the 
work,"  said  Mrs.  Radford.  "  I  know  we  're  about  blocked 
up.  But  sit  you  down." 

Clara,  much  embarrassed,  gave  him  a  chair  against  the 
wall  opposite  the  white  heaps.  Then  she  herself  took 
her  place  on  the  sofa,  shamedly. 

"Will  you  drink  a  bottle  of  stout?"  Mrs.  Radford 
asked.  "  Clara,  get  him  a  bottle  of  stout." 

He  protested,  but  Mrs.  Radford  insisted. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  could  do  with  it,"  she  said. 
"Haven't  you  never  any  more  colour  than  that?" 


Clara  321 

"  It  's  only  a  thick  skin  I  've  got  that  does  n't  show 
the  blood  through,"  he  answered. 

Clara,  ashamed  and  chagrined,  brought  him  a  bottle 
of  stout  and  a  glass.  He  poured  out  some  of  the  black 
stuff. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  lifting  the  glass,  "  here  's  health !  " 

"  And  thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Radford. 

He  took  a  drink  of  stout. 

"  And  light  yourself  a  cigarette,  so  long  as  you  don't 
set  the  house  on  fire,"  said  Mrs.  Radford. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  replied. 

"  Nay,  you  need  n't  thank  me,"  she  answered.  "  I  s'll 
be  glad  to  smell  a  bit  of  smoke  in  th'  'ouse  again.  A 
house  o'  women  is  as  dead  as  a  house  wi'  no  fire,  to  my 
thinkin'.  I  'm  not  a  spider  as  likes  a  corner  to  myself. 
I  like  a  man  about,  if  he  's  only  something  to  snap  at." 

Clara  began  to  work.  Her  jenny  spun  with  a  subdued 
buzz;  the  white  lace  hopped  from  between  her  fingers 
on  to  the  card.  It  was  filled;  she  snipped  off  the  length, 
and  pinned  the  end  down  to  the  banded  lace.  Then  she 
put  a  new  card  in  her  jenny.  Paul  watched  her.  She 
sat  square  and  magnificent.  Her  throat  and  arms  were 
bare.  The  blood  still  mantled  below  her  ears;  she  bent 
her  head  in  shame  of  her  humility.  Her  face  was  set  on 
her  work.  Her  arms  were  creamy  and  full  of  life  beside 
the  white  lace;  her  large,  well-kept  hands  worked  with 
a  balanced  movement,  as  if  nothing  would  hurry  them. 
He,  not  knowing,  watched  her  all  the  time.  He  saw  the 
arch  of  her  neck  from  the  shoulder,  as  she  bent  her  head; 
he  saw  the  coil  of  dun  hair;  he  watched  her  moving, 
gleaming  arms. 

"  I  've  heard  a  bit  about  you  from  Clara,"  continued 
the  mother.  "You're  in  Jordan's,  aren't  you?"  She 
drew  her  lace  unceasing. 

"  Yes." 

"  Ay,  well,  and  I  can  remember  when  Thomas  Jordan 
used  to  ask  me  for  one  of  my  toffies." 

"  Did  he?  "  laughed  Paul.     "  And  did  he  get  it?  " 


Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Sometimes  he  did,  sometimes  he  did  n't  —  which  was 
latterly.  For  he 's  the  sort  that  takes  all  and  gives 
naught,  he  is  —  or  used  to  be." 

"  I  think  he  's  very  decent,"  said  Paul. 

"  Yes ;   well,  I  'm  glad  to  hear  it." 

Mrs.  Radford  looked  across  at  him  steadily.  There 
was  something  determined  about  her  that  he  liked.  Her 
face  was  falling  loose,  but  her  eyes  were  calm,  and  there 
was  something  strong  in  her  that  made  it  seem  she  was 
not  old;  merely  her  wrinkles  and  loose  cheeks  were  an 
anachronism.  She  had  the  strength  and  sang-froid  of 
a  woman  in  the  prime  of  life.  She  continued  drawing  the 
lace  with  slow,  dignified  movements.  The  big  web  came 
up  inevitably  over  her  apron;  the  length  of  lace  fell 
away  at  her  side.  Her  arms  were  finely  shapen,  but 
glossy  and  yellow  as  old  ivory.  They  had  not  the  peculiar 
dull  gleam  that  made  Clara's  so  fascinating  to  him. 

"  And  you  've  been  going  with  Miriam  Leivers?  "  the 
mother  asked  him. 

"  Well  —  "  he  answered. 

"  Yes,  she  's  a  nice  girl,"  she  continued.  "  She  's  very 
nice,  but  she  's  a  bit  too  much  above  this  world  to  suit 
my  fancy." 

"  She  is  a  bit  like  that,"  he  agreed. 

"  She  '11  never  be  satisfied  till  she  's  got  wings  and  can 
fly  over  everybody's  head,  she  won't,"  she  said. 

Clara  broke  in,  and  he  told  her  his  message.  She 
spoke  humbly  to  him.  He  had  surprised  her  in  her 
drudgery.  To  have  her  humble  made  him  feel  as  if  he 
were  lifting  his  head  in  expectation. 

"  Do  you  like  jennying?  "  he  asked. 

"  What  can  a  woman  do !  "  she  replied  bitterly. 

"Is  it  sweated?" 

"More  or  less.  Isn't  all  woman's  work?  That's 
another  trick  the  men  have  played,  since  we  force  our- 
selves into  the  labour  market." 

"  Now  then,  you  shut  up  about  the  men,"  said  her 
mother.  "  If  the  women  was  n't  fools,  the  men  would  n't 


Clara  323 

be  bad  uns,  that 's  what  I  say.  No  man  was  ever  that 
bad  wi5  me  but  what  he  got  it  back  again.  Not  but 
what  they  're  a  lousy  lot,  there  's  no  denying  it." 

"  But  they  're  all  right  really,  are  n't  they?  "  he  asked. 

"  Well,  they  're  a  bit  different  from  women,"  she 
answered. 

"  Would  you  care  to  be  back  at  Jordan's?  "  he  asked 
Clara. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  she  replied. 

"  Yes,  she  would !  "  cried  her  mother ;  "  thank  her 
stars  if  she  could  get  back.  Don't  you  listen  to  her. 
She  's  for  ever  on  that  'igh  horse  of  hers,  an'  its  back  's 
that  thin  an'  starved  it  '11  cut  her  i'  two  one  of  these 
days." 

Clara  suffered  badly  from  her  mother.  Paul  felt  as  if 
his  eyes  were  coming  very  wide  open.  Was  n't  he  to  take 
Clara's  fulminations  so  seriously,  after  all?  She  spun 
steadily  at  her  work.  He  experienced  a  thrill  of  joy, 
thinking  she  might  need  his  help.  She  seemed  denied  and 
deprived  of  so  much.  And  her  arm  moved  mechanically, 
that  should  never  have  been  subdued  to  a  mechanism, 
and  her  head  was  bowed  to  the  lace,  that  never  should 
have  been  bowed.  She  seemed  to  be  stranded  there  among 
the  refuse  that  life  has  thrown  away,  doing  her  jenny  ing. 
It  was  a  bitter  thing  to  her  to  be  put  aside  by  life,  as 
if  it  had  no  use  for  her.  No  wonder  she  protested. 

She  came  with  him  to  the  door.  He  stood  below  in  the 
mean  street,  looking  up  at  her.  So  fine  she  was  in  her 
stature  and  her  bearing,  she  reminded  him  of  Juno  de- 
throned. As  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  she  winced  from 
the  street,  from  her  surroundings. 

"  And  you  will  go  with  Mrs.  Hodgkinson  to  Huck- 
nall?  " 

He  was  talking  quite  meaninglessly,  only  watching  her. 
Her  grey  eyes  at  last  met  his.  They  looked  dumb  with 
humiliation,  pleading  with  a  kind  of  captive  misery. 
He  was  shaken  and  at  a  loss.  He  had  thought  her  high 
and  mighty. 


324  Sons  and  Lovers 

When  he  left  her,  he  wanted  to  run.  He  went  to  the 
station  in  a  sort  of  dream,  and  was  at  home  without 
realizing  he  had  moved  out  of  her  street. 

He  had  an  idea  that  Susan,  the  overseer  of  the  spiral 
girls,  was  about  to  be  married.  He  asked  her  the  next 
day. 

"  I  say,  Susan,  I  heard  a  whisper  of  your  getting  mar- 
ried. What  about  it?" 

Susan  flushed  red. 

"  Who  's  been  talking  to  you  ?  "  she  replied. 

"  Nobody.  I  merely  heard  a  whisper  that  you  were 
thinking  —  " 

"  Well,  I  am,  though  you  need  n't  tell  anybody. 
What 's  more,  I  wish  I  was  n't !  " 

"  Nay,  Susan,  you  won't  make  me  believe  that." 

"  Shan't  I  ?  You  can  believe  it,  though.  I  'd  rather 
stop  here  a  thousand  times." 

Paul  was  perturbed. 

"Why,  Susan?" 

The  girl's  colour  was  high,  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"That's  why!" 

"  And  must  you  ?  " 

For  answer,  she  looked  at  him.  There  was  about  him 
a  candour  and  gentleness  which  made  the  women  trust 
him.  He  understood. 

"  Ah,  I  'm  sorry,"  he  said. 

Tears  came  to  her  eyes. 

"  But  you  '11  see  it  '11  turn  out  all  right.  You  '11  make 
the  best  of  it,"  he  continued  rather  wistfully. 

"  There  's  nothing  else  for  it." 

"  Yea,  there  's  making  the  worst  of  it.  Try  and  make 
it  all  right." 

He  soon  made  occasion  to  call  again  on  Clara. 

"  Would  you,"  he  said,  "  care  to  come  back  to 
Jordan's?" 

She  put  down  her  work,  laid  her  beautiful  arms  on 
the  table,  and  looked  at  him  for  some  moments  without 
answering.  Gradually  the  flush  mounted  her  cheek. 


Clara  325 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

Paul  felt  rather  awkward. 

"  Well,  because  Susan  is  thinking  of  leaving,"  he  said. 

Clara  went  on  with  her  jennying.  The  white  lace 
leaped  in  little  jumps  and  bounds  on  to  the  card.  He 
waited  for  her.  Without  raising  her  head,  she  said  at 
last,  in  a  peculiar  low  voice: 

"  Have  you  said  anything  about  it?  " 

"  Except  to  you,  not  a  word." 

There  was  again  a  long  silence. 

"  I  will  apply  when  the  advertisement  is  out,"  she  said. 

"  You  will  apply  before  that.  I  will  let  you  know 
exactly  when." 

She  went  on  spinning  her  little  machine,  and  did  not 
contradict  him. 

Clara  came  to  Jordan's.  Some  of  the  older  hands, 
Fanny  among  them,  remembered  her  earlier  rule,  and 
cordially  disliked  the  memory.  Clara  had  always  been 
"  ikey,"  reserved,  and  superior.  She  had  never  mixed 
with  the  girls  as  one  of  themselves.  If  she  had  occasion 
to  find  fault,  she  did  it  coolly  and  with  perfect  politeness, 
which  the  defaulter  felt  to  be  a  bigger  insult  than  cross- 
ness. Towards  Fanny,  the  poor,  overstrung  hunchback, 
Clara  was  unfailingly  compassionate  and  gentle,  as  a 
result  of  which  Fanny  shed  more  bitter  tears  than  ever 
the  rough  tongues  of  the  other  overseers  had  caused 
her. 

There  was  something  in  Clara  that  Paul  disliked,  and 
much  that  piqued  him.  If  she  were  about,  he  always 
watched  her  strong  throat  or  her  neck,  upon  which  the 
blonde  hair  grew  low  and  fluffy.  There  was  a  fine  down, 
almost  invisible,  upon  the  skin  of  her  face  and  arms,  and 
when  once  he  had  perceived  it,  he  saw  it  always. 

When  he  was  at  his  work,  painting  in  the  afternoon, 
she  would  come  and  stand  near  to  him,  perfectly  motion- 
less. Then  he  felt  her,  though  she  neither-  spoke  nor 
touched  him.  Although  she  stood  a  yard  away  he  felt 
as  if  he  were  in  contact  with  her.  Then  he  could  paint 


326  Sons  and  Lovers 

no  more.  He  flung  down  the  brushes,  and  turned  to 
talk  to  her. 

Sometimes  she  praised  his  work;  sometimes  she  was 
critical  and  cold. 

"  You  are  affected  in  that  piece,"  she  would  say ;  and, 
as  there  was  an  element  of  truth  in  her  condemnation, 
his  blood  boiled  with  anger. 

Again:  "  What  of  this?  "  he  would  ask  enthusiastically. 

"H'm!"  She  made  a  small  doubtful  sound.  "It 
does  n't  interest  me  much." 

"  Because  you  don't  understand  it,"  he  retorted. 

"  Then  why   ask  me   about  it?  " 

"  Because  I  thought  you  would  understand." 

She  would  shrug  her  shoulders  in  scorn  of  his  work. 
She  maddened  him.  He  was  furious.  Then  he  abused 
her,  and  went  into  passionate  exposition  of  his  stuff. 
This  amused  and  stimulated  her.  But  she  never  owned 
that  she  had  been  wrong. 

During  the  ten  years  that  she  had  belonged  to  the 
women's  movement  she  had  acquired  a  fair  amount  of 
education,  and,  having  had  some  of  Miriam's  passion  to 
be  instructed,  had  taught  herself  French,  and  could  read 
in  that  language  with  a  struggle.  She  considered  her- 
self as  a  woman  apart,  and  particularly  apart,  from  her 
class.  The  girls  in  the  spiral  department  were  all  of 
good  homes.  It  was  a  small,  special  industry,  and  had 
a  certain  distinction.  There  was  an  air  of  refinement 
in  both  rooms.  But  Clara  was  aloof  also  from  her 
fellow-workers. 

None  of  these  things,  however,  did  she  reveal  to  Paul. 
She  was  not  the  one  to  give  herself  away.  There  was  a 
sense  of  mystery  about  her.  She  was  so  reserved,  he  felt 
she  had  much  to  reserve.  Her  history  was  open  on  the 
surface,  but  its  inner  meaning  was  hidden  from  every- 
body. It  was  exciting.  And  then  sometimes  he  caught 
her  looking  at  him  from  under  her  brows  with  an  almost 
furtive,  sullen  scrutiny,  which  made  him  move  quickly. 
Often  she  met  his  eyes.  But  then  her  own  were,  as  it 


Clara  327 

were,  covered  over,  revealing  nothing.  She  gave  him  a 
little,  lenient  smile.  She  was  to  him  extraordinarily  pro- 
vocative, because  of  the  knowledge  she  seemed  to  possess, 
and  gathered  fruit  of  experience  he  could  not  attain. 

One  day  he  picked  up  a  copy  of  "  Lettres  de  mon 
Moulin  "  from  her  work-bench. 

"  You  read  French,  do  you  ?  "  he  cried. 

Clara  glanced  round  negligently.  She  was  making  an 
elastic  stocking  of  heliotrope  silk,  turning  the  spiral 
machine  with  slow,  balanced  regularity,  occasionally 
bending  down  to  see  her  work  or  to  adjust  the  needles; 
then  her  magnificent  neck,  with  its  down  and  fine  pencils 
of  hair,  shone  white  against  the  lavender,  lustrous  silk. 
She  turned  a  few  more  rounds,  and  stopped. 

"What  did  you  say?"  she  asked,  smiling  sweetly. 

Paul's  eyes  glittered  at  her  insolent  indifference  to 
him. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  read  French,"  he  said,  very 
polite. 

"  Did  you  not?  "  she  replied,  with  a  faint,  sarcastic 
smile. 

"  Rotten  swank !  "  he  said,  but  scarcely  loud  enough 
to  be  heard. 

He  shut  his  mouth  angrily  as  he  watched  her.  She 
seemed  to  scorn  the  work  she  mechanically  produced; 
yet  the  hose  she  made  were  as  nearly  perfect  as  possible. 

"  You  don't  like  spiral  work,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  well,  all  work  is  work,"  she  answered,  as  if  she 
knew  all  about  it. 

He  marvelled  at  her  coldness.  He  had  to  do  every- 
thing hotly.  She  must  be  something  special. 

"  What  would  you  prefer  to  do  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  laughed  at  him  indulgently,  as  she  said: 

"  There  is  so  little  likelihood  of  my  ever  being  given 
a  choice,  that  I  have  n't  wasted  time  considering." 

"  Pah ! "  he  said,  contemptuous  on  his  side  now. 
"  You  only  say  that  because  you  're  too  proud  to  own 
up  what  you  want  and  can't  get." 


328  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  You  know  me  very  well,"  she  replied  coldly. 

"  I  know  you  think  you  're  terrific  great  shakes,  and 
that  you  live  under  the  eternal  insult  of  working  in  a 
factory." 

He  was  very  angry  and  very  rude.  She  merely  turned 
away  from  him  in  disdain.  He  walked  whistling  down 
the  room,  flirted  and  laughed  with  Hilda. 

Later  on  he  said  to  himself: 

"  What  was  I  so  impudent  to  Clara  for?  "  He  was 
rather  annoyed  with  himself,  at  the  same  time  glad. 
"  Serve  her  right;  she  stinks  with  silent  pride,"  he  said 
to  himself  angrily. 

In  the  afternoon  he  came  down.  There  was  a  certain 
weight  on  his  heart  which  he  wanted  to  remove.  He 
thought  to  do  it  by  offering  her  chocolates. 

"  Have  one  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  bought  a  handful  to 
sweeten  me  up." 

To  his  great  relief,  she  accepted.  He  sat  on  the  work- 
bench beside  her  machine,  twisting  a  piece  of  silk  round 
his  finger.  She  loved  him  for  his  quick,  unexpected  move- 
ments, like  a  young  animal.  His  feet  swung  as  he  pon- 
dered. The  sweets  lay  strewn  on  the  bench.  She  bent 
over  her  machine,  grinding  rhythmically,  then  stooping 
to  see  the  stocking  that  hung  beneath,  pulled  down  by  the 
weight.  He  watched  the  handsome  crouching  of  her 
back,  and  the  apron-strings  curling  on  the  floor. 

"  There  is  always  about  you,"  he  said,  "  a  sort  of 
waiting.  Whatever  I  see  you  doing,  you  're  not  really 
there:  you  are  waiting  —  like  Penelope  when  she  did  her 
weaving."  He  could  not  help  a  spurt  of  wickedness. 
"  I  '11  call  you  Penelope,"  he  said. 

"  Would  it  make  any  difference?  "  she  said,  carefully 
removing  one  of  her  needles. 

"  That  does  n't  matter,  so  long  as  it  pleases  me. 
Here,  I  say,  you  seem  to  forget  I  'm  your  boss.  It  just 
occurs  to  me." 

"  And  what  does  that  mean  ?  "  she  asked  coolly. 

"  It  means  I  've  got  a  right  to  boss  you." 


Clara  329 

"  Is  there  anything  you  want  to  complain  about  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  say,  you  need  n't  be  nasty,"  he  said  angrily. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  want,"  she  said,  continuing 
her  task. 

"  I  want  you  to  treat  me  nicely  and  respectfully." 

"  Call  you  '  sir,'  perhaps  ?  "  she  asked  quietly. 

"  Yes,  call  me  *  sir.'     I  should  love  it." 

"  Then  I  wish  you  would  go  upstairs,  sir." 

His  mouth  closed,  and  a  frown  came  on  his  face.  He 
jumped  suddenly  down. 

"  You  're  too  blessed  superior  for  anything,"  he  said. 

And  he  went  away  to  the  other  girls.  He  felt  he  was 
being  angrier  than  he  had  any  need  to  be.  In  fact,  he 
doubted  slightly  that  he  was  showing  off.  But  if  he 
were,  then  he  would.  Clara  heard  him  laughing,  in  a 
way  she  hated,  with  the  girls  down  the  next  room. 

When  at  evening  he  went  through  the  department  after 
the  girls  had  gone,  he  saw  his  chocolates  lying  untouched 
in  front  of  Clara's  machine.  He  left  them.  In  the  morning 
they  were  still  there,  and  Clara  was  at  work.  Later  on 
Minnie,  a  little  brunette  they  called  Pussy,  called  to  him : 

"  Hey,  haven't  you  got  a  chocolate  for  anybody?  " 

"  Sorry,  Pussy,"  he  replied.  "  I  meant  to  have  offered 
them ;  then  I  went  and  forgot  'em." 

"  I  think  you  did,"  she  answered. 

"  I  '11  bring  you  some  this  afternoon.  You  don't  want 
them  after  they  've  been  lying  about,  do  you?  " 

"  Oh,  I  'm  not  particular,"  smiled  Pussy. 

"  Oh  no,"  he  said.    "  They  '11  be  dusty." 

He  went  up  to  Clara's  bench. 

"  Sorry  I  left  these  things  littering  about,"  he  said. 

She  flushed  scarlet.  He  gathered  them  together  in  his 
fist. 

"  They  '11  be  dirty  now,"  he  said.  "  You  should  have 
taken  them.  I  wonder  why  you  did  n't.  I  meant  to  have 
told  you  I  wanted  you  to." 

He  flung  them  out  of  the  window  into  the  yard  below. 
He  just  glanced  at  her.  She  winced  from  his  eyes. 


330  Sons  and  Lovers 

In  the  afternoon  he  brought  another  packet. 

"  Will  you  take  some?  "  he  said,  offering  them  first  to 
Clara.  "These  are  fresh." 

She  accepted  one,  and  put  it  onto  the  bench. 

"  Oh,  take  several  —  for  luck,"  he  said. 

She  took  a  couple  more,  and  put  them  on  the  bench  also. 
Then  she  turned  in  confusion  to  her  work.  He  went  on 
up  the  room. 

"  Here  you  are,  Pussy,"  he  said.     "  Don't  be  greedy !  " 

"  Are  they  all  for  her?  "  cried  the  others,  rushing  up. 

"  Of  course  they  're  not,"  he  said. 

The  girls  clamoured  round.  Pussy  drew  back  from 
her  mates. 

"  Come  out !  "  she  cried.  "  I  can  have  first  pick,  can't 
I,  Paul?" 

"  Be  nice  with  'em,"  he  said,  and  went  away. 

"  You  are  a  dear,"  the  girls  cried. 

"  Tenpence,"  he   answered. 

He  went  past  Clara  without  speaking.  She  felt  the 
three  chocolate  creams  would  burn  her  if  she  touched 
them.  It  needed  all  her  courage  to  slip  them  into  the 
pocket  of  her  apron. 

The  girls  loved  him  and  were  afraid  of  him.  He  was 
so  nice  while  he  was  nice,  but  if  he  were  offended,  so 
distant,  treating  them  as  if  they  scarcely  existed,  or  not 
more  than  the  bobbins  of  thread.  And  then,  if  they  were 
impudent,  he  said  quietly :  "  Do  you  mind  going  on  with 
your  work,"  and  stood  and  watched. 

When  he  celebrated  his  twenty-third  birthday,  Jthe 
house  was  in  trouble.  Arthur  was  just  going  to  be  mar- 
ried. His  mother  was  not  well.  His  father,  getting  an 
old  man,  and  lame  from  his  accidents,  was  given  a  paltry, 
poor  job.  Miriam  was  an  eternal  reproach.  He  felt  he 
owed  himself  to  her,  yet  could  not  give  himself.  The 
house,  moroover,  needed  his  support.  He  was  pulled  in 
all  directions.  He  was  not  glad  it  was  his  birthday.  It 
made  him  bitter. 

He  got  to  work  at  eight  o'clock.    Most  of  the  clerks  had 


Clara  331 

not  turned  up.  The  girls  were  not  due  until  8.30.  As  he 
was  changing  his  coat,  he  heard  a  voice  behind  him  say: 

"  Paul,  Paul,  I  want  you,"  she  said. 

It  was  Fanny,  the  hunchback,  standing  at  the  top  of 
her  stairs,  her  face  radiant  with  a  secret.  Paul  looked 
at  her  in  astonishment. 

"  I  want  you,"  she  said. 

He  stood,  at  a  loss. 

"  Come  on,"  she  coaxed.  "  Come  before  you  begin  of 
the  letters." 

He  went  down  the  half-dozen  steps  into  her  dry, 
narrow,  "  finishing-off  "  room.  Fanny  walked  before  him : 
her  black  bodice  was  short  —  the  waist  was  under  her 
armpits  —  and  her  green-black  cashmere  skirt  seemed 
very  long,  as  she  strode  with  big  strides  before  the  young 
man,  himself  so  graceful.  She  went  to  her  seat  at  the 
narrow  end  of  the  room,  where  the  window  opened  on  to 
chimney-pots.  Paul  watched  her  thin  hands  and  her  flat 
red  wrists  as  she  excitedly  twitched  her  white  apron,  which 
was  spread  on  the  bench  in  front  of  her.  She  hesitated. 

"You  didn't  think  we'd  forgot  you?"  she  asked, 
reproachful. 

"  Why?  "  he  asked.  He  had  forgotten  his  birthday 
himself. 

"  «  Why,'  he  says !  '  Why ! '  Why,  look  here !  "  She 
pointed  to  the  calendar,  and  he  saw,  surrounding  the  big 
black  number  "  21,"  hundreds  of  little  crosses  in 
blacklead. 

"  Oh,  kisses  for  my  birthday,"  he  laughed.  "  How  did 
you  know?  " 

"  Yes,  you  want  to  know,  don't  you?  "  Fanny  mocked, 
hugely  delighted.  "  There  's  one  from  everybody  —  ex- 
cept Lady  Clara  —  and  two  from  some.  But  I  shan't 
tell  you  how  many  /  put." 

"  Oh,  I  know,  you  're  spooney,"  he  said. 

"  There  you  are  mistaken !  "  she  cried  indignant.  "  I 
could  never  be  so  soft."  Her  voice  was  strong  and 
contralto. 


332  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  You  always  pretend  to  be  such  a  hard-hearted  hussy," 
he  laughed.  "  And  you  know  you  're  as  sentimental  —  " 

"  I  Jd  rather  be  called  sentimental  than  frozen  meat," 
Fanny  blurted.  Paul  knew  she  referred  to  Clara,  and  he 
smiled. 

"  Do  you  say  such  nasty  things  about  me  ? "  he 
laughed. 

"  No,  my  duck,"  the  hunchback  woman  answered, 
lavishly  tender.  She  was  thirty-nine.  "  No,  my  duck, 
because  you  don't  think  yourself  a  fine  figure  in  marble 
and  us  nothing  but  dirt.  I  'm  as  good  as  you,  are  n't  I, 
Paul?  "  and  the  question  delighted  her. 

"  Why,  we  're  not  better  than  one  another,  are  we  ?  " 
he  replied. 

"But  I'm  as  good  as  you,  aren't  I,  Paul?"  she 
persisted  daringly. 

"  Of  course  /ou  are.  If  it  comes  to  goodness,  you  're 
better." 

She  was  rather  afraid  of  the  situation.  She  might 
get  hysterical. 

"  I  thought  I  'd  get  here  before  the  others  —  won't 
they  say  I  'm  deep !  Now  shut  your  eyes  —  "  she  said. 

"  And  open  your  mouth,  and  see  what  God  sends  you," 
he  continued,  suiting  action  to  words,  and  expecting  a 
piece  of  chocolate.  He  heard  the  rustle  of  the  apron, 
and  a  faint  clink  of  metal.  "  I  'm  going  to  look,"  he 
said. 

He  opened  his  eyes.  Fanny,  her  long  cheeks  flushed, 
her  blue  eyes  shining,  was  gazing  at  him.  There  was  a 
little  bundle  of  paint-tubes  on  the  bench  before  him. 
He  turned  pale. 

"  No,  Fanny,"  he  said  quickly. 

"  From  us  all,"  she  answered  hastily. 

"No,  but  —  " 

"Are  they  the  right  sort?  "  she  asked,  rocking  herself 
with  delight. 

"  Jove !  they  're  the  best  in  the  catalogue." 

"  But  they  're  the  right  sorts  ?  "  she  cried. 


Clara  333 

"  They  're  off  the  little  list  I  'd  made  to  get  when  my 
ship  came  in."  He  bit  his  lip. 

Fanny  was  overcome  with  emotion.  She  must  turn 
the  conversation. 

"  They  was  all  on  thorns  to  do  it ;  they  all  paid 
their  shares,  all  except  the  Queen  of  Sheba." 

The  Queen  of  Sheba  was  Clara. 

"  And  would  n't  she  join?  "  Paul  asked. 

"  She  did  n't  get  the  chance ;  we  never  told  her ;  we 
was  n't  going  to  have  her  bossing  Ms  show.  We  did  n't 
want  her  to  join." 

Paul  laughed  at  the  woman.  He  was  much  moved.  At 
last  he  must  go.  She  was  very  close  to  him.  Suddenly 
she  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him 
vehemently. 

"  I  can  give  you  a  kiss  to-day,"  she  said  apologetically. 
"  You  've  looked  so  white,  it 's  made  my  heart  ache." 

Paul  kissed  her,  and  left  her.  Her  arms  were  so  piti- 
fully thin  that  his  heart  ached  also. 

That  day  he  met  Clara  as  he  ran  downstairs  to  wash 
his  hands  at  dinner-time. 

"  You  have  stayed  to  dinner !  "  he  exclaimed.  It  was 
unusual  for  her. 

"  Yes ;  and  I  seem  to  have  dined  on  old  surgical-ap- 
pliance stock.  I  must  go  out  now,  or  I  shall  feel  stale 
india-rubber  right  through." 

She  lingered.     He  instantly  caught  at  her  wish. 

"You  are  going  anywhere?"  he  asked. 

They  went  together  up  to  the  Castle.  Outdoors  she 
dressed  very  plainly,  down  to  ugliness ;  indoors  she  always 
looked  nice.  She  walked  with  hesitating  steps  alongside 
Paul,  bowing  and  turning  away  from  him.  Dowdy  in 
dress,  and  drooping,  she  showed  to  great  disadvantage. 
He  could  scarcely  recognize  her  strong  form,  that  seemed 
to  slumber  with  power.  She  appeared  almost  insignifi- 
cant, drowning  her  stature  in  her  stoop,  as  she  shrank 
from  the  public  gaze. 

The  Castle  grounds  were  very  green  and  fresh.    Climb- 


334  Sons  and  Lovers 

ing  the  precipitous  ascent,  he  laughed  and  chattered,  but 
she  was  silent,  seeming  to  brood  over  something.  There 
was  scarcely  time  to  go  inside  the  squat,  square  building 
that  crowns  the  bluff  of  rock.  They  leaned  upon  the 
wall  where  the  cliff  runs  sheer  down  to  the  Park.  Below 
them,  in  their  holes  in  the  sandstone,  pigeons  preened 
themselves  and  cooed  softly.  Away  down  upon  the  boule- 
vard at  the  foot  of  the  rock,  tiny  trees  stood  in  their 
own  pools  of  shadow,  and  tiny  people  went  scurrying 
about  in  almost  ludicrous  importance. 

"  You  feel  as  if  you  could  scoop  up  the  folk  like  tad- 
poles, and  have  a  handful  of  them,"  he  said. 

She  laughed,  answering: 

"  Yes ;  it  is  not  necessary  to  get  far  off  in  order  to 
see  us  proportionately.  The  trees  are  much  more 
significant." 

"  Bulk  only,"  he  said. 

She  laughed  cynically. 

Away  beyond  the  boulevard  the  thin  stripes  of  the 
metals  showed  upon  the  railway  track,  whose  margin 
was  crowded  with  little  stacks  of  timber,  beside  which 
smoking  toy  engines  fussed.  Then  the  silver  string  of 
the  canal  lay  at  random  among  the  black  heaps.  Be- 
yond, the  dwellings,  very  dense  on  the  river  flat,  looked 
like  black,  poisonous  herbage,  in  thick  rows  and  crowded 
beds,  stretching  right  away,  broken  now  and  then  by 
taller  plants,  right  to  where  the  river  glistened  in  a  hiero- 
glyph across  the  country.  The  steep  scarp  cliffs  across 
the  river  looked  puny.  Great  stretches  of  country  dark- 
ened with  trees  and  faintly  brightened  with  corn-land, 
spread  towards  the  haze,  where  the  hills  rose  blue  beyond 
grey. 

"  It  is  comforting,"  said  Mrs.  Dawes,  "  to  think  the 
town  goes  no  farther.  It  is  only  a  little  sore  upon  the 
country  yet." 

"  A  little  scab,"  Paul  said. 

She  shivered.  She  loathed  the  town.  Looking  drearily 
across  at  the  country  which  was  forbidden  her,  her  im- 


Clara  335 

passive  face  pale  and  hostile,  she  reminded  Paul  of  one 
of  the  bitter,  remorseful  angels. 

"  But  the  town  's  all  right,"  he  said ;  "  it 's  only 
temporary.  This  is  the  crude,  clumsy  make-shift  we  've 
practised  on,  till  we  find  out  what  the  idea  is.  The  town 
will  come  all  right." 

The  pigeons  in  the  pockets  of  rock,  among  the  perched 
bushes,  cooed  comfortably.  To  the  left  the  large  church 
of  St.  Mary  rose  into  space,  to  keep  close  company  with 
the  Castle,  above  the  heaped  rubble  of  the  town.  Mrs. 
Dawes  smiled  brightly  as  she  looked  across  the  country. 

"  I  feel  better,"  she  said. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  replied.     "  Great  compliment !  " 

"  Oh,  my  brother !  "  she  laughed. 

"  H'm !  that 's  snatching  back  with  the  left  hand  what 
you  gave  with  the  right,  and  no  mistake,"  he  said. 

She  laughed  in  amusement  at  him. 

"But  what  was  the  matter  with  you?  "  he  asked.  "I 
know  you  were  brooding  something  special.  I  can  see 
the  stamp  of  it  on  your  face  yet." 

"  I  think  I  will  not  tell  you,"  she  said. 

"  All  right,  hug  it,"  he  answered. 

She  flushed  and  bit  her  lip. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  it  was  the  girls." 

"What  about  'em?"  Paul  asked. 

"  They  have  been  plotting  something  for  a  week  now, 
and  to-day  they  seem  particularly  full  of  it.  All  alike; 
they  insult  me  with  their  secrecy." 

"  Do  they?  "  he  asked  in  concern. 

"  I  should  not  mind,"  she  went  on,  in  the  metallic,  angry 
tone,  "  if  they  did  not  thrust  it  into  my  face  —  the  fact 
that  they  have  a  secret." 

"  Just  like  women,"  said  he. 

"  It  is  hateful,  their  mean  gloating,"  she  said  intensely. 

Paul  was  silent.  He  knew  what  the  girls  gloated  over. 
He  was  sorry  to  be  the  cause  of  this  new  dissension. 

"  They  can  have  all  the  secrets  in  the  world,"  she  went 
on,  brooding  bitterly ;  "  but  they  might  refrain  from 


336  Sons  and  Lovers 

glorying  in  them,  and  making  me  feel  more  out  of  it 
than  ever.  It  is  —  it  is  almost  unbearable." 

Paul  thought  for  a  few  minutes.  He  was  much 
perturbed. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  it 's  all  about,"  he  said,  pale  and 
nervous.  "  It 's  my  birthday,  and  they  've  bought  me 
a  fine  lot  of  paints,  all  the  girls.  They  're  jealous  of 
you  "  —  he  felt  her  stiffen  coldly  at  the  word  "  jealous  " 

—  "  merely  because  I  sometimes  bring  you  a  book,"  he 
added  slowly.     "  But,  you  see,  it 's  only  a  trifle.     Don't 
bother    about    it,    will    you  —  because  "  —  he    laughed 
quickly  — "  well,   what  would   they   say  if   they   saw  us 
here  now,  in  spite  of  their  victory?  " 

She  was  angry  with  him  for  his  clumsy  reference  to 
their  present  intimacy.  It  was  almost  insolent  of  him. 
Yet  he  was  so  quiet,  she  forgave  him,  although  it  cost 
her  an  effort. 

Their  two  hands  lay  on  the  rough  stone  parapet  of 
the  Castle  wall.  He  had  inherited  from  his  mother  a 
fineness  of  mould,  so  that  his  hands  were  small  and  vigor- 
ous. Hers  were  large,  to  match  her  large  limbs,  but 
white  and  powerful  looking.  As  Paul  looked  at  them  he 
knew  her.  "  She  is  wanting  somebody  to  take  her  hands 

—  for  all  she  is  so  contemptuous  of  us,"  he  said  to  him- 
self.    And  she  saw  nothing  but  his  two  hands,  so  warm 
and  alive,  which  seemed  to  live  for  her.     He  was  brood- 
ing now,  staring  out  over  the  country  from  under  sullen 
brows.      The  little,   interesting  diversity   of  shapes   had 
vanished  from  the  scene;    all  that  remained  was  a  vast, 
dark  matrix  of  sorrow  and  tragedy,  the  same  in  all  the 
houses  and  the  river-flats  and  the  people  and  the  birds ; 
they  were  only  shapen   differently.     And  now  that  the 
forms  seemed  to  have  melted  away,  there  remained  the 
mass  from  which  all  the  landscape  was  composed,  a  dark 
mass  of  struggle  and  pain.     The  factory,  the  girls,  his 
mother,   the  large,   uplifted   church,   the   thicket   of   the 
town,  merged  into  one  atmosphere  —  dark,  brooding,  and 
sorrowful,  every  bit. 


Clara  337 

"  Is  that  two  o'clock  striking?  "  Mrs.  Dawes  said  in 
surprise. 

Paul  started,  and  everything  sprang  into  form,  re- 
gained its  individuality,  its  forgetfulness,  and  its 
cheerfulness. 

They  hurried  back  to  work. 

When  he  was  in  the  rush  of  preparing  for  the  night's 
post,  examining  the  work  up  from  Fanny's  room,  which 
smelt  of  ironing,  the  evening  postman  came  in. 

"  '  Mr.  Paul  Morel,'  "  he  said  smiling,  handing  Paul  a 
package.  "  A  lady's  handwriting !  Don't  let  the  girls 
see  it." 

The  postman,  himself  a  favourite,  was  pleased  to  make 
fun  of  the  girls'  affection  for  Paul. 

It  was  a  volume  of  verse  with  a  brief  note :  "  You  will 
allow  me  to  send  you  this,  and  so  spare  me  my  isolation. 
I  also  sympathize  and  wish  you  well.  —  C.  D."  Paul 
flushed  hot. 

"  Good  Lord !  Mrs.  Dawes.  She  can't  afford  it.  Good 
Lord,  who  ever  'd  have  thought  it !  " 

He  was  suddenly  intensely  moved.  He  was  filled  with 
the  warmth  of  her.  In  the  glow  he  could  almost  feel 
her  as  if  she  were  present  —  her  arms,  her  shoulders,  her 
bosom,  see  them,  feel  them,  almost  contain  them. 

This  move  on  the  part  of  Clara  brought  them  into 
closer  intimacy.  The  other  girls  noticed  that  when  Paul 
met  Mrs.  Dawes  his  eyes  lifted  and  gave  that  peculiar 
bright  greeting  which  they  could  interpret.  Knowing  he 
was  unaware,  Clara  made  no  sign,  save  that  occasionally 
she  turned  aside  her  face  from  him  when  he  came  upon 
her. 

They  walked  out  together  very  often  at  dinner-time; 
it  was  quite  open,  quite  frank.  Everybody  seemed  to 
feel  that  he  was  quite  unaware  of  the  state  of  his  own 
feeling,  and  that  nothing  was  wrong.  He  talked  to  her 
now  with  some  of  the  old  fervour  with  which  he  had 
talked  to  Miriam,  but  he  cared  less  about  the  talk; 
he  did  not  bother  about  his  conclusions. 


338  Sons  and  Lovers 

One  day  in  October  they  went  out  to  Lambley  for 
tea.  Suddenly  they  came  to  a  halt  on  top  of  the  hill. 
He  climbed  and  sat  on  a  gate,  she  sat  on  the  stile.  The 
afternoon  was  perfectly  still,  with  a  dim  haze,  and  yellow 
sheaves  glowing  through.  They  were  quiet. 

"  How  old  were  you  when  you  married?  "  he  asked 
quietly. 

"  Twenty-two." 

Her  voice  was  subdued,  almost  submissive.  She  would 
tell  him  now. 

"  It  is  eight  years  ago  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  And  when  did  you  leave  him?  " 

66  Three  years   ago." 

"  Five  years !  Did  you  love  him  when  you  married 
him?" 

She  was  silent  for  some  time;    then  she  said  slowly: 

66 1  thought  I  did  —  more  or  less.  I  did  n't  think  much 
about  it.  And  he  wanted  me.  I  was  very  prudish  then." 

"  And  you  sort  of  walked  into  it  without  thinking?  " 

66  Yes.  I  seemed  to  have  been  asleep  nearly  all  my 
life." 

"  Somnambule?     But  —  when  did  you  wake  up?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  did,  or  ever  have  —  since 
I  was  a  child." 

"  You  went  to  sleep  as  you  grew  to  be  a  woman  ?  How 
queer !  And  he  did  n't  wake  you?  " 

"  No ;   he  never  got  there,"  she  replied,  in  a  monotone. 

The  brown  birds  dashed  over  the  hedges  where  the  rose- 
hips stood  naked  and  scarlet. 

"  Got  where  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  At  me.    He  never  really  mattered  to  me." 

The  afternoon  was  so  gently  warm  and  dim.  Red  roofs 
of  the  cottages  burned  among  the  blue  haze.  He  loved 
the  day.  He  could  feel,  but  he  could  not  understand, 
what  Clara  was  saying. 

"But  why  did  you  leave  him?  Was  he  horrid  to 
vou?" 


Clara  339 

She  shuddered  lightly. 

"  He  —  he  sort  of  degraded  me.  He  wanted  to  bully  me 
because  he  had  n't  got  me.  And  then  I  felt  as  if  I 
wanted  to  run,  as  if  I  was  fastened  and  bound  up.  And 
he  seemed  dirty." 

"I   see." 

He  did  not  at  all  see. 

"  And  was  he  always  dirty?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  bit,"  she  replied  slowly.  "  And  then  he  seemed  as 
if  he  could  n't  get  at  me,  really.  And  then  he  got  brutal 
—  he  was  brutal !  " 

"  And  why  did  you  leave  him  finally?  " 

"  Because  —  because  he  was  unfaithful  to  me  —  " 

They  were  both  silent  for  some  time.  Her  hand  lay 
on  the  gate-post  as  she  balanced.  He  put  his  own  over 
it.  His  heart  beat  thickly. 

"  But  did  you  —  were  you  ever  —  did  you  ever  give 
him  a  chance? " 

"Chance?    How?" 

"  To  come  near  to  you." 

"  I  married  him  —  and  I  was  willing  —  " 

They  both  strove  to  keep  their  voices  steady. 

"  I  believe  he  loves  you,"  he  said. 

"  It  looks  like  it,"  she  replied. 

He  wanted  to  take  his  hand  away,  and  could  not. 
She  saved  him  by  removing  her  own.  After  a  silence, 
he  began  again: 

"  Did  you  leave  him  out  of  count  all  along?  " 

"  He  left  me,"  she  said. 

"  And  I  suppose  he  could  n't  make  himself  mean  every- 
thing to  you?  " 

"  He  tried  to  bully  me  into  it." 

But  the  conversation  had  got  them  both  out  of  their 
depth.  Suddenly  Paul  jumped  down. 

"  Come  on,"  he  said.     "  Let 's  go  and  get  some  tea." 

They  found  a  cottage,  where  they  sat  in  the  cold  par- 
lour. She  poured  out  his  tea.  She  was  very  quiet.  He 
felt  she  had  withdrawn  again  from  him.  After  tea,  she 


340  Sons  and  Lovers 

stared  broodingly  into  her  teacup,  twisting  her  wedding 
ring  all  the  time.  In  her  abstraction  she  took  the  ring 
off  her  finger,  stood  it  up,  and  spun  it  upon  the  table. 
The  gold  became  a  diaphanous,  glittering  globe.  It  fell, 
and  the  ring  was  quivering  upon  the  table.  She  spun  it 
again  and  again.  Paul  watched,  fascinated. 

But  she  was  a  married  woman,  and  he  believed  in  simple 
friendship.  And  he  considered  that  he  was  perfectly 
honourable  with  regard  to  her.  It  was  only  a  friendship 
between  man  and  woman,  such  as  any  civilized  persons 
might  have. 

He  was  like  so  many  young  men  of  his  own  age.  Sex 
had  become  so  complicated  in  him  that  he  would  have 
denied  that  he  ever  could  want  Clara  or  Miriam  or  any 
woman  whom  he  knew.  Sex  desire  was  a  sort  of  de- 
tached thing,  that  did  not  belong  to  a  woman.  He  loved 
Miriam  with  his  soul.  He  grew  warm  at  the  thought 
of  Clara,  he  battled  with  her,  he  knew  the  curves  of  her 
breast  and  shoulders  as  if  they  had  been  moulded  inside 
him;  and  yet  he  did  not  positively  desire  her.  He  would 
have  denied  it  for  ever.  He  believed  himself  really  bound 
to  Miriam.  If  ever  he  should  marry,  some  time  in  the 
far  future,  it  would  be  his  duty  to  marry  Miriam.  That 
he  gave  Clara  to  understand,  and  she  said  nothing,  but 
left  him  to  his  courses.  He  came  to  her,  Mrs.  Dawes, 
whenever  he  could.  Then  he  wrote  frequently  to  Miriam, 
and  visited  the  girl  occasionally.  So  he  went  on  through 
the  winter;  but  he  seemed  not  so  fretted.  His  mother 
was  easier  about  him.  She  thought  he  was  getting  away 
from  Miriam. 

Miriam  knew  now  how  strong  was  the  attraction  of 
Clara  for  him;  but  still  she  was  certain  that  the  best  in 
him  would  triumph.  His  feeling  for  Mrs.  Dawes  - 
who,  moreover,  was  a  married  woman  —  was  shallow  and 
temporal,  compared  with  his  love  for  herself.  He  would 
come  back  to  her,  she  was  sure;  with  some  of  his  young 
freshness  gone,  perhaps,  but  cured  of  his  desire  for  the 
lesser  things  which  other  women  than  herself  could  give 


Clara  341 

him.  She  could  bear  all  if  he  were  inwardly  true  to 
her  and  must  come  back. 

He  saw  none  of  the  anomaly  of  his  position.  Miriam 
was  his  old  friend,  lover,  and  she  belonged  to  Bestwood 
and  home  and  his  youth.  Clara  was  a  newer  friend,  and 
she  belonged  to  Nottingham,  to  life,  to  the  world.  It 
seemed  to  him  quite  plain. 

Mrs.  Dawes  and  he  had  many  periods  of  coolness,  when 
they  saw  little  of  each  other;  but  they  always  came  to- 
gether again. 

"  Were  you  horrid  with  Baxter  Dawes?  "  he  asked  her. 
It  was  a  thing  that  seemed  to  trouble  him. 

"In  what  way?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  But  were  n't  you  horrid  with  him  ? 
Did  n't  you  do  something  that  knocked  him  to  pieces?  " 

"What,   pray?" 

"  Making  him  feel  as  if  he  were  nothing  —  I  know," 
Paul  declared. 

"  You  are  so  clever,  my  friend,"  she  said  coolly. 

The  conversation  broke  off  there.  But  it  made  her 
cool  with  him  for  some  time. 

She  very  rarely  saw  Miriam  now.  The  friendship 
between  the  two  women  was  not  broken  off,  but  con- 
siderably weakened. 

"  Will  you  come  in  to  the  concert  on  Sunday  after- 
noon? "  Clara  asked  him  just  after  Christmas. 

"  I  promised  to  go  up  to  Willey  Farm,"  he  replied. 

"  Oh,  very  well." 

"You  don't  mind,  do  you?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why  should  I  ?  "  she  answered. 

Which  almost  annoyed  him. 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  "  Miriam  and  I  have  been  a  lot 
to  each  other  ever  since  I  was  sixteen  —  that 's  seven 
years  now." 

"  It 's  a  long  time,"  Clara  replied. 

"  Yes ;    but  somehow  she  —  it  does  n't  go  right  —  " 

"How?"  asked  Clara. 

"  She  seems  to  draw  me  and  draw  me,  and  she  would  n't 


342  Sons  and  Lovers 

leave  a  single  hair  of  me  free  to  fall  out  and  blow  away 
—  she  'd  keep  it." 

"  But  you  like  to  be  kept." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  don't.  I  wish  it  could  be  normal, 
give  and  take  —  like  me  and  you.  I  want  a  woman  to 
keep  me,  but  not  in  her  pocket." 

"  But  if  you  love  her,  it  could  n't  be  normal,  like  me 
and  you." 

"  Yes ;  I  should  love  her  better  then.  She  sort  of 
wants  me  so  much  that  I  can't  give  myself." 

"Wants  you  how?" 

"  Wants  the  soul  out  of  my  body.  I  can't  help  shrink- 
ing back  from  her." 

"  And  yet  you  love  her !  " 

"  No,  I  don't  love  her.    I  never  even  kiss  her." 

"Why  not?"  Clara  asked. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  I  suppose  you  're  afraid,"  she  said. 

"  I  'm  not.  Something  in  me  shrinks  from  her  like 
hell  —  she  's  so  good,  when  I  'm  not  good." 

"  How  do  you  know  what  she  is?  " 

"  I  do !    I  know  she  wants  a  sort  of  soul  union." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  what  she  wants  ?  " 

"  I  've  been  with  her  for  seven  years." 

"  And  you  have  n't  found  out  the  very  first  thing  about 
her." 

"What's  that?" 

"  That  she  does  n't  want  any  of  your  soul  communion. 
That 's  your  own  imagination.  She  wants  you." 

He  pondered  over  this.     Perhaps  he  was  wrong. 

"  But  she  seems  —  "  he  began. 

"  You  've  never  tried,"  she  answered. 


CHAPTER    XI 

THE    TEST    ON    MIRIAM 

the  spring  came  again  the  old  madness  and 
battle.  Now  he  knew  he  would  have  to  go  to 
Miriam.  But  what  was  his  reluctance?  He  told  him- 
self it  was  only  a  sort  of  over  strong  virginity  in  her 
and  him  which  neither  could  break  through.  He  might 
have  married  her;  but  his  circumstances  at  home  made 
it  difficult,  and,  moreover,  he  did  not  want  to  marry. 
Marriage  was  for  life,  and  because  they  had  become 
close  companions,  he  and  she,  he  did  not  see  that  it  should 
inevitably  follow  they  should  be  man  and  wife.  He  did 
not  feel  that  he  wanted  marriage  with  Miriam.  He 
wished  he  did.  He  would  have  given  his  head  to  have  felt 
a  joyous  desire  to  marry  her  and  to  have  her.  Then 
why  couldn't  he  bring  it  off?  There  was  some  obstacle; 
and  what  was  the  obstacle?  It  lay  in  the  physical  bond- 
age. He  shrank  from  the  physical  contact.  But  why? 
With  her  he  felt  bound  up  inside  himself.  He  could  not 
go  out  to  her.  Something  struggled  in  him,  but  he 
could  not  get  to  her.  Why?  She  loved  him.  Clara 
said  she  even  wanted  him ;  then  why  could  n't  he  go  to 
her,  make  love  to  her,  kiss  her?  Why,  when  she  put  her 
arm  in  his,  timidly,  as  they  walked,  did  he  feel  he  would 
burst  forth  in  brutality  and  recoil?  He  owed  himself  to 
her;  he  wanted  to  belong  to  her.  Perhaps  the  recoil  and 
the  shrinking  from  her  was  love  in  its  first  fierce  modesty. 
He  had  no  aversion  for  her.  No,  it  was  the  opposite; 
it  was  a  strong  desire  battling  with  a  still  stronger  shy- 
ness and  virginity.  It  seemed  as  if  virginity  were  a 
positive  force,  which  fought  and  won  in  both  of  them. 
And  with  her  he  felt  it  so  hard  to  overcome;  yet  he  was 


344  Sons  and  Lovers 

nearest  to  her,  and  with  her  alone  could  he  deliberately 
break  through.  And  he  owed  himself  to  her.  Then,  if 
they  could  get  things  right,  they  could  marry;  but  he 
would  not  marry  unless  he  could  feel  strong  in  the  joy  of 
it  —  never.  He  could  not  have  faced  his  mother.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  to  sacrifice  himself  in  a  marriage  he 
did  not  want  would  be  degrading,  and  would  undo  all  his 
life,  make  it  a  nullity.  He  would  try  what  he  could  do. 

And  he  had  a  great  tenderness  for  Miriam.  Always, 
she  was  sad,  dreaming  her  religion;  and  he  was  nearly 
a  religion  to  her.  He  could  not  bear  to  fail  her.  It 
would  all  come  right  if  they  tried. 

He  looked  round.  A  good  many  of  the  nicest  men  he 
knew  were  like  himself,  bound  in  by  their  own  virginity, 
which  they  could  not  break  out  of.  They  were  so  sensi- 
tive to  their  women  that  they  would  go  without  them  for 
ever  rather  than  do  them  a  hurt,  an  injustice.  Being 
the  sons  of  mothers  whose  husbands  had  blundered  rather 
brutally  through  their  feminine  sanctities,  they  were 
themselves  too  diffident  and  shy.  They  could  easier  deny 
themselves  than  incur  any  reproach  from  a  woman;  for 
a  woman  was  like  their  mother,  and  they  were  full  of 
the  sense  of  their  mother.  They  preferred  themselves 
to  suffer  the  misery  of  celibacy,  rather  than  risk  the 
other  person. 

He  went  back  to  her.  Something  in  her,  when  he 
looked  at  her,  brought  the  tears  almost  to  his  eyes. 
One  day  he  stood  behind  her  as  she  sang.  Annie  was 
playing  a  song  on  the  piano.  As  Miriam  sang  her  mouth 
seemed  hopeless.  She  sang  like  a  nun  singing  to  heaven. 
It  reminded  him  so  much  of  the  mouth  and  eyes  of  one 
who  sings  beside  a  Botticelli  Madonna,  so  spiritual. 
Again,  hot  as  steel,  came  up  the  pain  in  him.  Why 
must  he  ask  her  for  the  other  thing?  Why  was  there 
his  blood  battling  with  her?  If  only  he  could  have 
been  always  gentle,  tender  with  her,  breathing  with  her 
the  atmosphere  of  reverie  and  religious  dreams,  he  would 
give  his  right  hand.  It  was  not  fair  to  hurt  her.  There 


The  Test  on  Miriam  345 

seemed  an  eternal  maidenhood  about  her;  and  when  he 
thought  of  her  mother,  he  saw  the  great  brown  eyes  of 
a  maiden  who  was  nearly  scared  and  shocked  out  of  her 
virgin  maidenhood,  but  not  quite,  in  spite  of  her  seven 
children.  They  had  been  born  almost  leaving  her  out 
of  count,  not  of  her,  but  upon  her.  So  she  could  never 
let  them  go,  because  she  never  had  possessed  them. 

Mrs.  Morel  saw  him  going  again  frequently  to  Miriam, 
and  was  astonished.  He  said  nothing  to  his  mother. 
He  did  not  explain  nor  excuse  himself.  If  he  came  home 
late,  and  she  reproached  him,  he  frowned  and  turned  on 
her  in  an  overbearing  way: 

"  I  shall  come  home  when  I  like,"  he  said ;  "  I  am  old 
enough." 

"  Must  she  keep  you  till  this  time?  " 

"  It  is  I  who  stay,"  he  answered. 

"  And  she  lets  you  ?     But  very  well,"  she  said. 

And  she  went  to  bed,  leaving  the  door  unlocked  for 
him;  but  she  lay  listening  until  he  came,  often  long 
after.  It  was  a  great  bitterness  to  her  that  he  had  gone 
back  to  Miriam.  She  recognized,  however,  the  uselessness 
of  any  further  interference.  He  went  to  Willey  Farm 
as  a  man  now,  not  as  a  youth.  She  had  no  right  over 
him.  There  was  a  coldness  between  him  and  her.  He 
hardly  told  her  anything.  Discarded,  she  waited  on 
him,  cooked  for  him  still,  and  loved  to  slave  for  him; 
but  her  face  closed  again  like  a  mask.  There  was  nothing 
for  her  to  do  now  but  the  housework;  for  all  the  rest 
he  had  gone  to  Miriam.  She  could  not  forgive  him. 
Miriam  killed  the  joy  and  the  warmth  in  him.  He  had 
been  such  a  jolly  lad,  and  full  of  the  warmest  affection; 
now  he  grew  colder,  more  and  more  irritable  and  gloomy. 
It  reminded  her  of  William;  but  Paul  was  worse.  He 
did  things  with  more  intensity,  and  more  realization  of 
what  he  was  about.  His  mother  knew  how  he  was  suffer- 
ing for  want  of  a  woman,  and  she  saw  him  going  to 
Miriam.  If  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  nothing  on  earth 
would  alter  him.  Mrs.  Morel  was  tired.  She  began  to 


346  Sons  and  Lovers 

give  up  at  last;  she  had  finished.  She  was  in  the 
way. 

He  went  on  determinedly.  He  realized  more  or  less 
what  his  mother  felt.  It  only  hardened  his  soul.  He 
made  himself  callous  towards  her;  but  it  was  like  being 
callous  to  his  own  health.  It  undermined  him  quickly; 
yet  he  persisted. 

He  lay  back  in  the  rocking-chair  at  Willey  Farm  one 
evening.  He  had  been  talking  to  Miriam  for  some  weeks, 
but  had  not  come  to  the  point.  Now  he  said  suddenly : 

"  I  am  twenty-four,  almost." 

She  had  been  brooding.  She  looked  up  at  him  sud- 
denly in  surprise. 

"  Yes.     What  makes  you  say  it?  " 

There  was  something  in  the  charged  atmosphere  that 
she  dreaded. 

"  Sir  Thomas  More  says  one  can  marry  at  twenty- 
four." 

She  laughed  quaintly,  saying: 

"  Does  it  need  Sir  Thomas  More's  sanction?  " 

"  No ;   but  one  ought  to  marry  about  then." 

"  Ay,"  she  answered  broodingly ;    and  she  waited. 

"  I  can't  marry  you,"  he  continued  slowly,  "  not  now, 
because  we  've  no  money,  and  they  depend  on  me  at 
home." 

She  sat  half-guessing  what  was  coming. 

"  But  I  want  to  marry  now  — ' 

"  You  want  to  marry  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"  A  woman  —  you  know  what  I  mean." 

She  was  silent. 

"  Now,  at  last,  I  must,"  he  said. 

"  Ay,"  she  answered. 

"  And  you  love  me  ?  " 

She  laughed  bitterly. 

"Why  are  you  ashamed  of  it?  "  he  answered.  "You 
would  n't  be  ashamed  before  your  God,  why  are  you 
before  people?  " 

"  Nay,"  she  answered  deeply,  "  I  am  not  ashamed." 


The  Test  on  Miriam  347 

"  You  are,"  he  replied  bitterly ;  "  and  it 's  my  fault. 
But  you  know  I  can't  help  being  —  as  I  am  —  don't 
you?  " 

"  I  know  you  can't  help  it,"  she  replied. 

"  I  love  you  an  awful  lot  —  then  there  is  something 
short." 

"  Where  ?  "  she  answered,  looking  at  him. 

"  Oh,  in  me !  It  is  I  who  ought  to  be  ashamed  —  like 
a  spiritual  cripple.  And  I  am  ashamed.  It  is  misery. 
Why  is  it?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Miriam. 

"  And  I  don't  know,"  he  repeated.  "  Don't  you  think 
we  have  been  too  fierce  in  our  what  they  call  purity? 
Don't  you  think  that  to  be  so  much  afraid  and  averse 
is  a  sort  of  dirtiness?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  startled  dark  eyes. 

"  You  recoiled  away  from  anything  of  the  sort,  and 
I  took  the  motion  from  you,  and  recoiled  also,  perhaps 
worse." 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  for  some  time. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  it  is  so." 

"  There  is  between  us,"  he  said,  "  all  these  years  of 
intimacy.  I  feel  naked  enough  before  you.  Do  you 
understand?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  she  answered. 

"  And  you  love  me?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  Don't  be  bitter,"  he  pleaded. 

She  looked  at  him  and  was  sorry  for  him;  his  eyes 
were  dark  with  torture.  She  was  sorry  for  him;  it  was 
worse  for  him  to  have  this  deflected  love  than  for  her- 
self, who  could  never  be  properly  mated.  He  was  rest- 
less, for  ever  urging  forward  and  trying  to  find  a  way 
out.  He  might  do  as  he  liked,  and  have  what  he  liked 
of  her. 

"  Nay,"  she  said  softly,  "  I  am  not  bitter." 

She  felt  she  could  bear  anything  for  him;  she  would 
suffer  for  him.  She  put  her  hand  on  his  knee  as  he 


348  Sons  and  Lovers 

leaned  forward  in  his  chair.  He  took  it  and  kissed  it; 
but  it  hurt  to  do  so.  He  felt  he  was  putting  himself 
aside.  He  sat  there  sacrificed  to  her  purity,  which  felt 
more  like  nullity.  How  could  he  kiss  her  hand  passion- 
ately, when  it  would  drive  her  away,  and  leave  nothing 
but  pain?  Yet  slowly  he  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed 
her. 

They  knew  each  other  too  well  to  pretend  anything. 
As  she  kissed  him,  she  watched  his  eyes;  they  were 
staring  across  the  room,  with  a  peculiar  dark  blaze  in 
them  that  fascinated  her.  He  was  perfectly  still.  She 
could  feel  his  heart  throbbing  heavily  in  his  breast. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about  ?  "  she  asked. 

The  blaze  in  his  eyes  shuddered,  became  uncertain. 

"  I  was  thinking,  all  the  while,  I  love  you.  I  have  been 
obstinate." 

She  sank  her  head  on  his  breast. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"  That 's  all,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  seemed  sure,  and 
his  mouth  was  kissing  her  throat. 

Then  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  into  his  eyes 
with  her  full  gaze  of  love.  The  blaze  struggled,  seemed  to 
try  to  get  away  from  her,  and  then  was  quenched.  He 
turned  his  head  quickly  aside.  It  was  a  moment  of 
anguish. 

"  Kiss  me,"  she  whispered. 

He  shut  his  eyes,  and  kissed  her,  and  his  arms  folded 
her  closer  and  closer. 

When  she  walked  home  with  him  over  the  fields,  he 
said: 

"  I  am  glad  I  came  back  to  you.  I  feel  so  simple 
with  you  —  as  if  there  was  nothing  to  hide.  We  will 
be  happy?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured,  and  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes. 

"  Some  sort  of  perversity  in  our  souls,"  he  said, 
"  makes  us  not  want,  get  away  from,  the  very  thing  we 
want.  We  have  to  fight  against  that." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  and  she  felt  stunned. 


The  Test  on  Miriam  349 

As  she  stood  under  the  drooping  thorn-tree,  in  the 
darkness  by  the  roadside,  he  kissed  her,  and  his  fingers 
wandered  over  her  face.  In  the  darkness,  where  he  could 
not  see  her  but  only  feel  her,  his  passion  flooded  him.  He 
clasped  her  very  close. 

"  Sometime  you  will  have  me?  "  he  murmured,  hiding 
his  face  on  her  shoulder.  It  was  so  difficult. 

"  Not  now,"  she  said. 

His  hopes  and  his  heart  sunk.  A  dreariness  came 
over  him. 

"No,"  he  said. 

His  clasp  of  her  slackened. 

"  I  love  to  feel  your  arm  there!  "  she  said,  pressing  his 
arm  against  her  back,  where  it  went  round  her  waist. 
"It  rests  me  so." 

He  tightened  the  pressure  of  his  arm  upon  the  small 
of  her  back  to  rest  her. 

"  We  belong  to  each  other,"  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  why  should  n't  we  belong  to  each  other 
altogether?  " 

"But  —  "   she   faltered. 

66 1  know  it 's  a  lot  to  ask,"  he  said ;  "  but  there  's 
not  much  risk  for  you  really  —  not  in  the  Gretchen  way. 
You  can  trust  me  there?  " 

"  Oh,  I  can  trust  you."  The  answer  came  quick  and 
strong.  "  It 's  not  that  —  it 's  not  that  at  all  —  but  —  " 

"What?" 

She  hid  her  face  in  his  neck  with  a  little  cry  of  misery. 

"  I  don't  know!  "  she  cried. 

She  seemed  slightly  hysterical,  but  with  a  sort  of 
horror.  His  heart  died  in  him. 

"  You  don't  think  it  ugly?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  not  now.     You  have  taught  me  it  is  n't." 

"You  are  afraid?" 

She  calmed  herself  hastily. 

"  Yes,N  I  am  only  afraid,"  she  said. 

He  kissed  her  tenderly. 


350  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Never  mind,"  he  said.     "  You  shall  please  yourself." 

Suddenly  she  gripped  his  arms  round  him,  and  clenched 
her  body  stiff. 

"  You  shall  have  me,"  she  said,  through  her  shut 
teeth. 

His  heart  beat  up  again  like  fire.  He  folded  her  close, 
and  his  mouth  was  on  her  throat.  She  could  not  bear 
it.  She  drew  away.  He  disengaged  her. 

"  Won't  you  be  late?  "  she  asked  gently. 

He  sighed,  scarcely  hearing  what  she  said.  She 
waited,  wishing  he  would  go.  At  last  he  kissed  her 
quickly  and  climbed  the  fence.  Looking  round  he  saw 
the  pale  blotch  of  her  face  down  in  the  darkness  under  the 
hanging  tree.  There  was  no  more  of  her  but  this  pale 
blotch. 

"  Good-bye !  "  she  called  softly.  She  had  no  body, 
only  a  voice  and  a  dim  face.  He  turned  away  and  ran 
down  the  road,  his  fists  clenched;  and  when  he  came  to 
the  wall  over  the  lake  he  leaned  there,  almost  stunned, 
looking  up  the  black  water. 

Miriam  plunged  home  over  the  meadows.  She  was  not 
afraid  of  people,  what  they  might  say;  but  she  dreaded 
the  issue  with  him.  Yes,  she  would  let  him  have  her  if 
he  insisted;  and  then,  when  she  thought  of  it  afterwards, 
her  heart  went  down.  He  would  be  disappointed,  he 
would  find  no  satisfaction,  and  then  he  would  go  away. 
Yet  he  was  so  insistent;  and  over  this,  which  did  not 
seem  so  all-important  to  her,  was  their  love  to  break 
down.  After  all,  he  was  only  like  other  men,  seeking  his 
satisfaction.  Oh,  but  there  was  something  more  in  him, 
something  deeper!  She  could  trust  to  it,  in  spite  of  all 
desires.  He  said  that  possession  was  a  great  moment 
in  life.  All  strong  emotions  concentrated  there.  Perhaps 
it  was  so.  There  was  something  divine  in  it;  then  she 
would  submit,  religiously,  to  the  sacrifice.  He  should 
have  her.  And  at  the  thought  her  whole  body  clenched 
itself  involuntarily,  hard,  as  if  against  something;  but 
Life  forced  her  through  this  gate  of  suffering,  too,  and 


The  Test  on  Miriam  351 

she  would  submit.  At  any  rate,  it  would  give  him  what 
he  wanted,  which  was  her  deepest  wish.  She  brooded  and 
brooded  and  brooded  herself  towards  accepting  him. 

He  courted  her  now  like  a  lover.  Often,  when  he  grew 
hot,  she  put  his  face  from  her,  held  it  between  her  hands, 
and  looked  in  his  eyes.  He  could  not  meet  her  gaze. 
Her  dark  eyes,  full  of  love,  earnest  and  searching,  made 
him  turn  away.  Not  for  an  instant  would  she  let  him 
forget.  Back  again  he  had  to  torture  himself  into  a 
sense  of  his  responsibility  and  hers.  Never  any  relaxing, 
never  any  leaving  himself  to  the  great  hunger  and  im- 
personality of  passion;  he  must  be  brought  back  to  a 
deliberate,  reflective  creature.  As  if  from  a  swoon  of 
passion  she  called  him  back  to  the  littleness,  the  personal 
relationship.  He  could  not  bear  it.  "  Leave  me  alone 
—  leave  me  alone !  "  he  wanted  to  cry ;  but  she  wanted 
him  to  look  at  her  with  eyes  full  of  love.  His  eyes,  full 
of  the  dark,  impersonal  fire  of  desire,  did  not  belong  to 
her. 

There  was  a  great  crop  of  cherries  at  the  farm.  The 
trees  at  the  back  of  the  house,  very  large  and  tall,  hung 
thick  with  scarlet  and  crimson  drops,  under  the  dark 
leaves.  Paul  and  Edgar  were  gathering  in  the  fruit  one 
evening.  It  had  been  a  hot  day,  and  now  the  clouds 
were  rolling  in  the  sky,  dark  and  warm.  Paul  climbed 
high  in  the  tree,  above  the  scarlet  roofs  of  the  buildings. 
The  wind,  moaning  steadily,  made  the  whole  tree  rock 
with  a  subtle,  thrilling  motion  that  stirred  the  blood.  The 
young  man,  perched  insecurely  in  the  slender  branches, 
rocked  till  he  felt  slightly  drunk,  reached  down  the 
boughs,  where  the  scarlet  beady  cherries  hung  thick 
underneath,  and  tore  off  handful  after  handful  of  the 
sleek,  cool-fleshed  fruit.  Cherries  touched  his  ears  and 
his  neck  as  he  stretched  forward,  their  chill  finger-tips 
sending  a  flash  down  his  blood.  All  shades  of  red,  from 
a  golden  vermilion  to  a  rich  crimson,  glowed  and  met  his 
eyes  under  a  darkness  of  leaves. 

The    sun,    going   down,    suddenly    caught   the   broken 


352  Sons  and  Lovers 

clouds.  Immense  piles  of  gold  flared  out  in  the  south- 
east, heaped  in  soft,  glowing  yellow  right  up  the  sky. 
The  world,  till  now  dusk  and  grey,  reflected  the  gold 
glow,  astonished.  Everywhere  the  trees,  and  the  grass, 
and  the  far-off  water,  seemed  roused  from  the  twilight 
and  shining. 

Miriam  came  out  wondering. 

"Oh!"  Paul  heard  her  mellow  voice  call,  "isn't  it 
wonderful  ?  " 

He  looked  down.  There  was  a  faint  gold  glimmer  on 
her  face,  that  looked  very  soft,  turned  up  to  him. 

"  How  high  you  are !  "  she  said. 

Beside  her,  on  the  rhubarb  leaves,  were  four  dead 
birds,  thieves  that  had  been  shot.  Paul  saw  some  cherry- 
stones hanging  quite  bleached,  like  skeletons,  picked  clear 
of  flesh.  He  looked  down  again  to  Miriam. 

"  Clouds  are  on  fire,"  he  said. 

"  Beautiful !  "  she  cried. 

She  seemed  so  small,  so  soft,  so  tender,  down  there. 
He  threw  a  handful  of  cherries  at  her.  She  was  startled 
and  frightened.  He  laughed  with  a  low,  chuckling  sound, 
and  pelted  her.  She  ran  for  shelter,  picking  up  some 
cherries.  Two  fine  red  pairs  she  hung  over  her  ears; 
then  she  looked  up  again. 

"  Have  n't  you   got  enough?  "  she   asked.          * 

"  Nearly.     It  is  like  being  on  a  ship  up  here." 

"  And  how  long  will  you  stay?  " 

"  While  the  sunset  lasts." 

She  went  to  the  fence  and  sat  there,  watching  the  gold 
clouds  fall  to  pieces,  and  go  in  immense,  rose-coloured 
ruin  towards  the  darkness.  Gold  flamed  to  scarlet,  like 
pain  in  its  intense  brightness.  Then  the  scarlet  sank  to 
rose,  and  rose  to  crimson,  and  quickly  the  passion  went 
out  of  the  sky.  All  the  world  was  dark  grey.  Paul 
scrambled  quickly  down  with  his  basket,  tearing  his 
shirt-sleeve  as  he  did  so. 

"  They  are  lovely,"  said  Miriam,  fingering  the  cherries. 

"  I  've  torn  my  sleeve,"  he  answered. 


The  Test  on  Miriam  353 

She  took  the  three-cornered  rip,  saying: 

"  I  shall  have  to  mend  it."  It  was  near  the  shoulder. 
She  put  her  fingers  through  the  tear.  "  How  warm !  " 
she  said. 

He  laughed.  There  was  a  new,  strange  note  in  his 
voice,  one  that  made  her  pant. 

"  Shall  we  stay  out?  "  he  said. 

"Won't  it  rain?"  she  asked. 

"  No,  let  us  walk  a  little  way." 

They  went  down  the  fields  and  into  the  thick  planta- 
tion of  fir-trees  and  pines. 

"  Shall  we  go  in  among  the  trees  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Do  you  want  to?  " 

"  Yes." 

It  was  very  dark  among  the  firs,  and  the  sharp  spines 
pricked  her  face.  She  was  afraid.  Paul  was  silent  and 
strange. 

"  I  like  the  darkness,"  he  said.  "  I  wish  it  were 
thicker  —  good,  thick  darkness." 

He  seemed  to  be  almost  unaware  of  her  as  a  person: 
she  was  only^to  him  then  a  woman.  She  was  afraid. 

He  stood  against  a  pine-tree  trunk  and  took  her  in 
his  arms.  She  relinquished  herself  to  him,  but  it  was  a 
sacrifice  in  which  she  felt  something  of  horror.  This 
thick-voiced,  oblivious  man  was  a  stranger  to  her. 

Later  it  began  to  rain.  The  pine-trees  smelled  very 
strong.  Paul  lay  with  his  head  on  the  ground,  on  the 
dead  pine-needles,  listening  to  the  sharp  hiss  of  the  rain 
—  a  steady,  keen  noise.  His  heart  was  down,  very  heavy. 
Now  he  realized  that  she  had  not  been  with  him  all  the 
time,  that  her  soul  had  stood  apart,  in  a  sort  of  horror. 
He  was  physically  at  rest,  but  no  more.  Very  dreary 
at  heart,  very  sad,  and  very  tender,  his  fingers  wandered 
over  her  face  pitifully.  Now  again  she  loved  him  deeply. 
He  was  tender  and  beautiful. 

"The  rain!"  he  said. 

"  Yes  —  is  it  coming  on  you?  " 

She    put   her    hands    over   him,    on   his    hair,   on   his 


354  Sons  and  Lovers 

shoulders,  to  feel  if  the  raindrops  fell  on  him.  She  loved 
him  dearly.  He,  as  he  lay  with  his  face  on  the  dead 
pine-leaves,  felt  extraordinarily  quiet.  He  did  not  mind 
if  the  raindrops  came  on  him:  he  would  have  lain  and 
got  wet  through :  he  felt  as  if  nothing  mattered,  as  if  his 
living  were  smeared  away  into  the  beyond,  near  and 
quite  lovable.  This  strange,  gentle  reaching-out  to  death 
was  new  to  him. 

"  We  must  go,"  said  Miriam. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  but  did  not  move. 

To  him  now,  life  seemed  a  shadow,  day  a  white  shadow ; 
night,  and  death,  and  stillness,  and  inaction,  this  seemed 
like  being.  To  be  alive,  to  be  urgent  and  insistent  —  that 
was  not-to-be.  The  highest  of  all  was  to  melt  out  into  the 
darkness  and  sway  there,  identified  with  the  great  Being. 

"  The  rain  is  coming  in  on  us,"  said  Miriam. 

He  rose,  and  assisted  her. 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  he  said. 

"What?" 

"To  have  to  go.     I  feel  so  still." 

"Still!"  she  repeated. 

"  Stiller  than  I  have  ever  been  in  my  life." 

He  was  walking  with  his  hand  in  hers.  She  pressed 
his  fingers,  feeling  a  slight  fear.  Now  he  seemed  beyond 
her;  she  had  a  fear  lest  she  should  lose  him. 

"  The  fir-trees  are  like  presences  on  the  darkness :  each 
one  only  a  presence." 

She  was  afraid,  and  said  nothing.  i 

"  A  sort  of  hush :  the  whole  night  wondering  and 
asleep :  I  suppose  that 's  what  we  do  in  death  —  sleep 
in  wonder." 

She  had  been  afraid  before  of  the  brute  in  him:  now 
of  the  mystic.  She  trod  beside  him  in  silence.  The  rain 
fell  with  a  heavy  "  Hush !  "  on  the  trees.  At  last  they 
gained  the  cart-shed. 

"  Let  us  stay  here  awhile,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  sound  of  rain  everywhere,  smothering 
everything. 


The  Test  on  Miriam  355 

"  I  feel  so  strange  and  still,"  he  said ;  "  along  with 
everything." 

"  Ay,"  she  answered  patiently. 

He  seemed  again  unaware  of  her,  though  he  held  her 
hand  close. 

"  To  be  rid  of  our  individuality,  which  is  our  will, 
which  is  our  effort  —  to  live  effortless,  a  kind  of  con- 
scious sleep  —  that  is  very  beautiful,  I  think ;  that  is 
our  after-life  —  our  immortality." 

"Yes?" 

"  Yes  —  and  very  beautiful  to  have." 

"  You  don't  usually  say  that." 

"  No." 

In  a  while  they  went  indoors.  Everybody  looked  at 
them  curiously.  He  still  kept  the  quiet,  heavy  look  in 
his  eyes,  the  stillness  in  his  voice.  Instinctively,  they  all 
left  him  alone. 

About  this  time  Miriam's  grandmother,  who  lived  in  a 
tiny  cottage  in  Woodlinton,  fell  ill,  and  the  girl  was 
sent  to  keep  house.  It  was  a  beautiful  little  place.  The 
cottage  had  a  big  garden  in  front,  with  red  brick  walls, 
against  which  the  plum-trees  were  nailed.  At  the  back 
another  garden  was  separated  from  the  fields  by  a  tall 
old  hedge.  It  was  very  pretty.  Miriam  had  not  much 
to  do,  so  she  found  time  for  her  beloved  reading,  and 
for  writing  little  introspective  pieces  which  interested 
her. 

At  the  holiday-time  her  grandmother,  being  better, 
was  driven  to  Derby  to  stay  with  her  daughter  for  a  day 
or  two.  She  was  a  crotchety  old  lady,  and  might  return 
the  second  day  or  the  third;  so  Miriam  stayed  alone  in 
the  cottage,  which  also  pleased  her. 

Paul  used  often  to  cycle  over,  and  they  had  as  a  rule 
peaceful  and  happy  times.  He  did  not  embarrass  her 
much;  but  then  on  the  Monday  of  the  holiday  he  was  to 
spend  a  whole  day  with  her. 

It  was  perfect  weather.  He  left  his  mother,  telling 
her  where  he  was  going.  She  would  be  alone  all  the  day. 


356  Sons  and  Lovers 

It  cast  a  shadow  over  him;  but  he  had  three  days  that 
were  all  his  own,  when  he  was  going  to  do  as  he  liked. 
It  was  sweet  to  rush  through  the  morning  lanes  on  his 
bicycle. 

He  got  to  the  cottage  at  about  eleven  o'clock.  Miriam 
was  busy  preparing  dinner.  She  looked  so  perfectly  in 
keeping  with  the  little  kitchen,  ruddy  and  busy.  He  kissed 
her  and  sat  down  to  watch.  The  room  was  small  and 
cosy.  The  sofa  was  covered  all  over  with  a  sort  of  linen 
in  squares  of  red  and  pale  blue,  old,  much  washed,  but 
pretty.  There  was  a  stuffed  owl  in  a  case  over  a  corner 
cupboard.  The  sunlight  came  through  the  leaves  of  the 
scented  geraniums  in  the  window.  She  was  cooking  a 
chicken  in  his  honour.  It  was  their  cottage  for  the  day, 
and  they  were  man  and  wife.  He  beat  the  eggs  for  her 
and  peeled  the  potatoes.  He  thought  she  gave  a  feeling 
of  home  almost  like  his  mother;  and  no  one  could  look 
more  beautiful,  with  her  tumbled  curls,  when  she  was 
flushed  from  the  fire. 

The  dinner  was  a  great  success.  Like  a  young  hus- 
band, he  carved.  They  talked  all  the  time  with  unflagging 
zest.  Then  he  wiped  the  dishes  she  had  washed,  and  they 
went  out  down  the  fields.  There  was  a  bright  little 
brook  that  ran  into  a  bog  at  the  foot  of  a  very  steep 
bank.  Here  they  wandered,  picking  still  a  few  marsh 
marigolds  and  many  big  blue  forget-me-nots.  Then  she 
sat  on  the  bank  with  her  hands  full  of  flowers,  mostly 
golden  water-blobs.  As  she  put  her  face  down  into  the 
marigolds,  it  was  all  overcast  with  a  yellow  shine. 

"  Your  face  is  bright,"  he  said,  "  like  a  trans- 
figuration." 

She  looked  at  him,  questioning.  He  laughed  pleadingly 
to  her,  laying  his  hand  on  hers.  Then  he  kissed  her 
fingers,  then  her  face. 

The  world  was  all  steeped  in  sunshine,  and  quite  still, 
yet  not  asleep,  but  quivering  with  a  kind  of  expectancy. 

u  I  have  never  seen  anything  more  beautiful  than  this," 
he  said.  He  held  her  hand  fast  all  the  time. 


The  Test  on  Miriam  357 

"  And  the  water  singing  to  itself  as  it  runs  —  do  you 
love  it?  "  She  looked  at  him  full  of  love.  His  eyes  were 
very  dark,  very  bright. 

"  Don't  you  think  it 's  a  great  day?  "  he  asked. 

She  murmured  her  assent.  She  was  happy,  and  he 
saw  it. 

"And  our  day  —  just  between  us,"  he  said. 

They  lingered  a  little  while.  Then  they  stood  up  upon 
the  sweet  thyme,  and  he  looked  down  at  her  simply. 

"  Will  you  come  ?  "  he  asked. 

Then  went  back  to  the  house,  hand-in-hand,  in  silence. 
The  chickens  came  scampering  down  the  path  to  her. 
He  locked  the  door,  and  they  had  the  little  house  to 
themselves. 

He  never  forgot  seeing  her  as  she  lay  on  the  bed,  when 
he  was  unfastening  his  collar.  First  he  saw  only  her 
beauty,  and  was  blind  with  it.  She  had  the  most  beau- 
tiful body  he  had  ever  imagined.  He  stood  unable  to 
move  or  speak,  looking  at  her,  his  face  half  smiling  with 
wonder.  And  then  he  wanted  her,  but  as  he  went  for- 
ward to  her,  her  hands  lifted  in  a  little  pleading  move- 
ment, and  he  looked  at  her  face,  and  stopped.  Her  big 
brown  eyes  were  watching  him,  still  and  resigned  and 
loving ;  she  lay  as  if  she  had  given  herself  up  to  sacrifice : 
there  was  her  body  for  him;  but  the  look  at  the  back 
of  her  eyes,  like  a  creature  awaiting  immolation,  arrested 
him,  and  all  his  blood  fell  back. 

"  You  are  sure  you  want  me?  "  he  asked,  as  if  a  cold 
shadow  had  come  over  him. 

"  Yes,  quite  sure." 

She  was  very  quiet,  very  calm.  She  only  realized  that 
she  was  doing  something  for  him.  He  could  hardly  bear 
it.  She  lay  to  be  sacrificed  for  him  because  she  loved 
him  so  much.  And  he  had  to  sacrifice  her.  For  a  second, 
he  wished  he  were  sexless  or  dead.  Then  he  shut  his  eyes 
again  to  her,  and  his  blood  beat  back  again. 

And  afterwards  he  loved  her  —  loved  her  to  the  last 
fibre  of  his  being.  He  loved  her.  But  he  wanted,  some- 


358  Sons  and  Lovers 

how,  to  cry.  There  was  something  he  could  not  bear  for 
her  sake.  He  stayed  with  her  till  quite  late  at  night. 
As  he  rode  home  he  felt  that  he  was  finally  initiated.  He 
was  a  youth  no  longer.  But  why  had  he  the  dull  pain 
in  his  soul?  Why  did  the  thought  of  death,  the  after- 
life, seem  so  sweet  and  consoling? 

He  spent  the  week  with  Miriam,  and  wore  her  out 
with  his  passion  before  it  was  gone.  He  had  always, 
almost  wilfully,  to  put  her  out  of  count,  and  act  from  the 
brute  strength  of  his  own  feelings.  And  he  could  not  do 
it  often,  and  there  remained  afterwards  always  the  sense 
of  failure  and  of  death.  If  he  were  really  with  her,  he 
had  to  put  aside  himself  and  his  desire.  If  he  would 
have  her,  he  had  to  put  her  aside. 

"  When  I  come  to  you,"  he  asked  her,  his  eyes  dark 
with  pain  and  shame,  "  you  don't  really  want  me,  do 
you?  " 

"  Ah,  yes !  "  she  replied  quickly. 

He  looked  at  her. 

"  Nay,"  he  said. 

She  began  to  tremble. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  taking  his  face  and  shutting  it 
out  against  her  shoulder  —  "  you  see  —  as  we  are  — 
how  can  I  get  used  to  you?  It  would  come  all  right  if 
we  were  married." 

He  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  her. 

"  You  mean,  now,  it  is  always  too  much  shock?  " 

«  yes  —  and  —  " 

"  You  are  always  clenched  against  me." 

She  was  trembling  with  agitation. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  "  I  'm  not  used  to  the 
thought  —  " 

"  You  are  lately,"  he  said. 

"  But  all  my  life.  Mother  said  to  me,  '  There  is  one 
thing  in  marriage  that  is  always  dreadful,  but  you  have 
to  bear  it.'  And  I  believed  it." 

"  And  still  believe,"  he  said. 

"  No !  "  she  cried  hastily.     "  I  believe,  as  you  do,  that 


The  Test  on  Miriam  359 

loving,  even  in  that  way,  is  the  high- water  mark  of 
living." 

"  That  does  n't  alter  the  fact  that  you  never  want  it." 

"  No,"  she  said,  taking  his  head  in  her  arms  and  rock- 
ing in  despair.  "  Don't  say  so !  You  don't  understand." 
She  rocked  with  pain.  "  Don't  I  want  your  children?  " 

"  But  not  me." 

"  How  can  you  say  so  ?  But  we  must  be  married  to 
have  children  —  " 

"  Shall  we  be  married,  then?  /  want  you  to  have  my 
children." 

He  kissed  her  hand  reverently.  She  pondered  sadly, 
watching  him. 

"  We  are  too  young,"  she  said  at  length. 

"  Twenty- four  and  twenty-three  —  " 

"  Not  yet,"  she  pleaded,  as  she  rocked  herself  in 
distress. 

"  When  you  will,"  he  said. 

She  bowed,  her  head  gravely.  The  tone  of  hopelessness 
in  which  he  said  these  things  grieved  her  deeply.  It  had 
always  been  a  failure  between  them.  Tacitly,  she  ac- 
quiesced in  what  he  felt. 

And  after  a  week  of  love  he  said  to  his  mother  sud- 
denly one  Sunday  night,  just  as  they  were  going  to  bed: 

"  I  shan't  go  so  much  to  Miriam's,  mother." 

She  was  surprised,  but  she  would  not  ask  him  anything. 

"  You  please  yourself,"  she  said. 

So  he  went  to  bed.  But  there  was  a  new  quietness 
about  him  which  she  had  wondered  at.  She  almost 
guessed.  She  would  leave  him  alone,  however.  Pre- 
cipitation might  spoil  things.  She  watched  him  in  his 
loneliness,  wondering  where  he  would  end.  He  was  sick, 
and  much  too  quiet  for  him.  There  was  a  perpetual 
little  knitting  of  his  brows,  such  as  she  had  seen  when 
he  was  a  small  baby,  and  which  had  been  gone  for  many 
years.  Now  it  was  the  same  again.  And  she  could  do 
nothing  for  him.  He  had  to  go  on  alone,  make  his 
own  way. 


360  Sons  and  Lovers 

He  continued  faithful  to  Miriam.  For  one  day  he  had 
loved  her  utterly.  But  it  never  came  again.  The  sense 
of  failure  grew  stronger.  At  first  it  was  only  a  sadness. 
Then  he  began  to  feel  he  could  not  go  on.  He  wanted 
to  run,  to  go  abroad,  anything.  Gradually  he  ceased  to 
ask  her  to  have  him.  Instead  of  drawing  them  together, 
it  put  them  apart.  And  then  he  realized,  consciously, 
that  it  was  no  good.  It  was  useless  trying:  it  would 
never  be  a  success  between  them. 

For  some  months  he  had  seen  very  little  of  Clara. 
They  had  occasionally  walked  out  for  half  an  hour  at 
dinner-time.  But  he  always  reserved  himself  for  Miriam. 
With  Clara,  however,  his  brow  cleared,  and  he  was  gay 
again.  She  treated  him  indulgently,  as  if  he  were  a 
child.  He  thought  he  did  not  mind.  But  deep  below 
the  surface  it  piqued  him. 

Sometimes   Miriam  said: 

"What  about  Clara?  I  hear  nothing  of  her  lately." 

"  I  walked  with  her  about  twenty  minutes  yesterday," 
he  replied. 

"  And  what  did  she  talk  about?  " 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose  I  did  all  the  jawing  —  I 
usually  do.  I  think  I  was  telling  her  about  the  strike, 
and  how  the  women  took  it." 

"  Yes." 

So  he  gave  the  account  of  himself. 

But  insidiously,  without  his  knowing  it,  the  warmth 
he  felt  for  Clara  drew  him  away  from  Miriam,  for  whom 
he  felt  responsible,  and  to  whom  he  felt  he  belonged. 
He  thought  he  was  being  quite  faithful  to  her.  It  is  not 
easy  to  estimate  exactly  the  strength  and  warmth  of 
one's  feelings  for  a  woman  till  they  have  run  away  with 
one. 

He  began  to  give  more  time  to  his  men  friends.  There 
was  Jessop,  at  the  Art  School;  Swain,  who  was  chem- 
istry demonstrator  at  the  University;  Newton,  who  was 
a  teacher ;  besides  Edgar  and  Miriam's  younger  brothers. 
Pleading  work,  he  sketched  and  studied  with  Jessop.  He 


The  Test  on  Miriam  361 

called  in  the  University  for  Swain,  and  the  two  went 
"  down  town  "  together.  Having  come  home  in  the  train 
with  Newton,  he  called  and  had  a  game  of  billiards  with 
him  in  the  Moon  and  Stars.  If  he  gave  to  Miriam  the 
excuse  of  his  men  friends,  he  felt  quite  justified.  His 
mother  began  to  be  relieved.  He  always  told  her  where 
he  had  been. 

During  the  summer  Clara  wore  sometimes  a  dress 
of  soft  cotton  stuff  with  loose  sleeves.  When  she  lifted 
her  hands,  her  sleeves  fell  back,  and  her  beautiful  strong 
arms  shone  out. 

"  Half  a  minute,"  he  cried.     "  Hold  your  arm  still." 

He  made  sketches  of  her  hand  and  arm,  and  the  draw- 
ings contained  some  of  the  fascination  the  real  thing  had 
for  him.  Miriam,  who  always  went  scrupulously  through 
his  books  and  papers,  saw  the  drawings. 

"  I  think  Clara  has  such  beautiful  arms,"  he  said. 

"  Yes !     When  did  you  draw  them  ?  " 

"  On  Tuesday,  in  the  work-room.  You  know,  I  've 
got  a  corner  where  I  can  work.  Often  I  can  do  every 
single  thing  they  need  in  the  department,  before  dinner. 
Then  I  work  for  myself  in  the  afternoon,  and  just  see 
to  things  at  night." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  turning  the  leaves  of  his  sketch-book. 

Frequently  he  hated  Miriam.  He  hated  her  as  she  bent 
forward  and  pored  over  his  things.  He  hated  her  way 
of  patiently  casting  him  up,  as  if  he  were  an  endless 
psychological  account.  When  he  was  with  her,  he  hated 
her  for  having  got  him,  and  yet  not  got  him,  and  he 
tortured  her.  She  took  all  and  gave  nothing,  he  said. 
At  least,  she  gave  no  living  warmth.  She  was  never 
alive,  and  giving  off  life.  Looking  for  her  was  like  look- 
ing for  something  which  did  not  exist.  She  was  only  his 
conscience,  not  his  mate.  He  hated  her  violently,  and 
was  more  cruel  to  her.  They  dragged  on  till  the  next 
summer.  He  saw  more  and  more  of  Clara. 

At  last  he  spoke.  He  had  been  sitting  working  at  home 
one  evening.  There  was  between  him  and  his  mother  a 


362  Sons  and  Lovers 

peculiar  condition  of  people  frankly  finding  fault  with 
each  other.  Mrs.  Morel  was  strong  on  her  feet  again. 
He  was  not  going  to  stick  to  Miriam.  Very  well ;  then 
she  would  stand  aloof  till  he  said  something.  It  had  been 
coming  a  long  time,  this  bursting  of  the  storm  in  him, 
when  he  would  come  back  to  her.  This  evening  there  was 
between  them  a  peculiar  condition  of  suspense.  He  worked 
feverishly  and  mechanically,  so  that  he  could  escape 
from  himself.  It  grew  late.  Through  the  open  door, 
stealthily,  came  the  scent  of  madonna  lilies,  almost  as  if 
it  were  prowling  abroad.  Suddenly  he  got  up  and  went 
out  of  doors. 

The  beauty  of  the  night  made  him  want  to  shout.  A 
half-moon,  dusky  gold,  was  sinking  behind  the  black 
sycamore  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  making  the  sky  dull 
purple  with  its  glow.  Nearer,  a  dim  white  fence  of  lilies 
went  across  the  garden,  and  the  air  all  round  seemed  to 
stir  with  scent,  as  if  it  were  alive.  He  went  across  the 
bed  of  pinks,  whose  keen  perfume  came  sharply  across 
the  rocking,  heavy  scent  of  the  lilies,  and  stood  along- 
side the  white  barrier  of  flowers.  They  flagged  all  loose, 
as  if  they  were  panting.  The  scent  made  him  drunk. 
He  went  down  to  the  field  to  watch  the  moon  sink 
under. 

A  corncrake  in  the  hay-close  called  insistently.  The 
moon  slid  quite  quickly  downwards,  growing  more  flushed. 
Behind  him  the  great  flowers  leaned  as  if  they  were 
calling.  And  then,  like  a  shock,  he  caught  another  per- 
fume, something  raw  and  coarse.  Hunting  round,  he 
found  the  purple  iris,  touched  their  fleshy  throats  and 
their  dark,  grasping  hands.  At  any  rate,  he  had  found 
something.  They  stood  stiff  in  the  darkness.  Their 
scent  was  brutal.  The  moon  was  melting  down  upon  the 
crest  of  the  hill.  It  was  gone;  all  was  dark.  The 
corncrake  called  still. 

Breaking  off  a  pink,  he  suddenly  went  indoors. 

"  Come,  my  boy,"  said  his  mother.  "  I  'm  sure  it 's 
time  you  went  to  bed." 


The  Test  on  Miriam  363 

He  stood  with  the  pink  against  his  lips. 

"  I  shall  break  off  with  Miriam,  mother,"  he  answered 
calmly. 

She  looked  up  at  him  over  her  spectacles.  He  was 
staring  back  at  her,  unswerving.  She  met  his  eyes  for 
a  moment,  then  took  off  her  glasses.  He  was  white. 
The  male  was  up  in  him,  dominant.  She  did  not  want 
to  see  him  too  clearly. 

"  But  I  thought  —  "  she  began. 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  "  I  don't  love  her.  I  don't  want 
to  marry  her  —  so  I  shall  have  done." 

"  But,"  exclaimed  his  mother,  amazed,  "  I  thought 
lately  you  had  made  up  your  mind  to  have  her,  and  so 
I  said  nothing." 

"  I  had  —  I  wanted  to  —  but  now  I  don't  want.  It 's 
no  good.  I  shall  break  off  on  Sunday.  I  ought  to, 
oughtn't  I?" 

"  You  know  best.    You  know  I  said  so  long  ago." 

"  I  can't  help  that  now.     I  shall  break  off  on  Sunday." 

"Well,"  said  his  mother,  "I  think  it  will  be  best. 
But  lately  I  decided  you  had  made  up  your  mind  to  have 
her,  so  I  said  nothing,  and  should  have  said  nothing. 
But  I  say  as  I  have  always  said,  I  don't  think  she  is 
suited  to  you." 

"  On  Sunday  I  break  off,"  he  said,  smelling  the  pink. 
He  put  the  flower  in  his  mouth.  Unthinking,  he  bared 
his  teeth,  closed  them  on  the  blossom  slowly,  and  had  a 
mouthful  of  petals.  These  he  spat  into  the  fire,  kissed 
his  mother,  and  went  to  bed. 

On  Sunday  he  went  up  to  the  farm  in  the  early  after- 
noon. He  had  written  Miriam  that  they  would  walk  over 
the  fields  to  Hucknall.  His  mother  was  very  tender  with 
him.  He  said  nothing.  But  she  saw  the  effort  it  was 
costing.  The  peculiar  set  look  on  his  face  stilled  her. 

"  Never  mind,  my  son,"  she  said.  "  You  will  be  so 
much  better  when  it  is  all  over." 

Paul  glanced  swiftly  at  his  mother  in  surprise  and 
resentment.  He  did  not  want  sympathy. 


364  Sons  and  Lovers 

Miriam  met  him  at  the  lane-end.  She  was  wearing  a 
new  dress  of  figured  muslin  that  had  short  sleeves.  Those 
short  sleeves,  and  Miriam's  brown-skinned  arms  beneath 
them  —  such  pitiful,  resigned  arms  —  gave  him  so  much 
pain  that  they  helped  to  make  him  cruel.  She  had  made 
herself  look  so  beautiful  and  fresh  for  him.  She  seemed 
to  blossom  for  him  alone.  Every  time  he  looked  at  her 
—  a  mature  young  woman  now,  and  beautiful  in  her  new 
dress  —  it  hurt  so  much  that  his  heart  seemed  almost  to 
be  bursting  with  the  restraint  he  put  on  it.  But  he  had 
decided,  and  it  was  irrevocable. 

On  the  hills  they  sat  down,  and  he  lay  with  his  head  in 
her  lap,  whilst  she  fingered  his  hair.  She  knew  that  "  he 
was  not  there,"  as  she  put  it.  Often,  when  she  had  him 
with  her,  she  looked  for  him,  and  could  not  find  him. 
But  this  afternoon  she  was  not  prepared. 

It  was  nearly  five  o'clock  when  he  told  her.  They  were 
sitting  on  the  bank  of  a  stream,  where  the  lip  of  turf 
hung  over  a  hollow  bank  of  yellow  earth,  and  he  was 
hacking  away  with  a  stick,  as  he  did  when  he  was  per- 
turbed and  cruel. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  he  said,  "  we  ought  to  break 
off." 

"  Why  ?  "  she  cried  in  surprise. 

"  Because  it 's  no  good  going  on." 

"Why  is  it  no  good?" 

"  It  is  n't.  I  don't  want  to  marry.  I  don't  want  ever 
to  marry.  And  if  we  're  not  going  to  marry,  it 's  no 
good  going  on." 

"  But  why  do  you  say  this  now?  " 

"  Because  I  've  made  up  my  mind." 

"  And  what  about  these  last  months,  and  the  things 
you  told  me  then?  " 

"  I  can't  help  it ;    I  don't  want  to  go  on." 

"  You  don't  want  any  more  of  me  ?  " 

"  I  want  us  to  break  off  —  you  be  free  of  me,  I  free 
of  you." 

"  And  what  about  these  last  months?  " 


The  Test  on  Miriam  365 

"  I  don't  know.  I  've  not  told  you  anything  but  what 
I  thought  was  true." 

"  Then  why  are  you  different  now?  " 

"  I  'm  not  —  I  'm  the  same  —  only  I  know  it 's  no  good 
going  on." 

"  You  have  n't  told  me  why  it 's  no  good." 

"  Because  I  don't  want  to  go  on  —  and  I  don't  want 
to  marry." 

"  How  many  times  have  you  offered  to  marry  me,  and 
I  wouldn't?" 

"  I  know ;  but  I  want  us  to  break  off." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  or  two,  while  he  dug 
viciously  at  the  earth.  She  bent  her  head,  pondering. 
He  was  an  unreasonable  child.  He  was  like  an  infant 
which,  when  it  has  drunk  its  fill,  throws  away  and  smashes 
the  cup.  She  looked  at  him,  feeling  she  could  get  hold 
of  him  and  wring  some  consistency  out  of  him.  But  she 
was  helpless.  Then  she  cried: 

"  I  have  said  you  were  only  fourteen  —  you  are  only 
four!  " 

He  still  dug  at  the  earth  viciously.     He  heard. 

"  You  are  a  child  of  four,"  she  repeated  in  her 
anger. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  said  in  his  heart :  "  All  right ; 
if  I  'm  a  child  of  four,  what  do  you  want  me  for?  / 
don't  want  another  mother."  But  he  said  nothing  to 
her,  and  there  was  silence. 

"  And  have  you  told  your  people  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  have  told  my  mother." 

There  was  another  long  interval  of  silence. 

"  Then  what  do  you  want?  "  she  asked. 

"  Why,  I  want  us  to  separate.  We  have  lived  on  each 
other  all  these  years ;  now  let  us  stop.  I  will  go  my  own 
way  without  you,  and  you  will  go  your  way  without 
me.  You  will  have  an  independent  life  of  your  own 
then." 

There  was  in  it  some  truth  that,  in  spite  of  her  bitter- 
ness, she  could  not  help  registering.  She  knew  she  felt 


366  Sons  and  Lovers 

in  a  sort  of  bondage  to  him,  which  she  hated  because 
she  could  not  control  it.  She  had  hated  her  love  for 
him  from  the  moment  it  grew  too  strong  for  her.  And, 
deep  down,  she  had  hated  him  because  she  loved  him 
and  he  dominated  her.  She  had  resisted  his  domination. 
She  had  fought  to  keep  herself  free  of  him  in  the  last 
issue.  And  she  was  free  of  him,  even  more  than  he  of 
her. 

"  And,"  he  continued,  "  we  shall  always  be  more  or 
less  each  other's  work.  You  have  done  a  lot  for  me, 
I  for  you.  Now  let  us  start  and  live  by  ourselves." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do?  "  she  asked. 

"  Nothing  —  only  be  free,"  he  answered. 

She,  however,  knew  in  her  heart  that  Clara's  influence 
was  over  him  to  liberate  him.  But  she  said  nothing. 

"  And  what  have  I  to  tell  my  mother?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  told  my  mother,"  he  answered,  "  that  I  was  break- 
ing off  —  clean  and  altogether." 

"  I  shall  not  tell  them  at  home,"  she  said. 

Frowning,  "  You  please  yourself,"  he  said. 

He  knew  he  had  landed  her  in  a  nasty  hole,  and  was 
leaving  her  in  the  lurch.  It  angered  him. 

"  Tell  them  you  would  n't  and  won't  marry  me,  and 
have  broken  off,"  he  said.  "  It 's  true  enough." 

She  bit  her  finger  moodily.  She  thought  over  their 
whole  affair.  She  had  known  it  would  come  to  this ; 
she  had  seen  it  all  along.  It  chimed  with  her  bitter 
expectation. 

"  Always  —  it  has  always  been  so !  "  she  cried.  "  It 
has  been  one  long  battle  between  us  —  you  fighting  away 
from  me." 

It  came  from  her  unawares,  like  a  flash  of  lightning. 
The  man's  heart  stood  still.  Was  this  how  she  saw  it? 

"  But  we  've  had  some  perfect  hours,  some  perfect 
times,  when  we  were  together !  "  he  pleaded. 

"  Never !  "  she  cried ;  "  never !  It  has  always  been 
you  fighting  me  off." 

"  Not  always  —  not  at  first !  "  he  pleaded. 


The  Test  on  Miriam  367 

"Always,  from  the  very  beginning  —  always  the 
same !  " 

She  had  finished,  but  she  had  done  enough.  He  sat 
aghast.  He  had  wanted  to  say,  "  It  has  been  good,  but 
it  is  at  an  end."  And  she  —  she  whose  love  he  had 
believed  in  when  he  had  despised  himself  —  denied  that 
their  love  had  ever  been  love.  "  He  had  always  fought 
away  from  her?  "  Then  it  had  been  monstrous.  There 
had  never  been  anything  really  between  them;  all  the 
time  he  had  been  imagining  something  where  there  was 
nothing.  And  she  had  known.  She  had  known  so  much, 
and  had  told  him  so  little.  She  had  known  all  the  time. 
All  the  time  this  was  at  the  bottom  of  her! 

He  sat  silent  in  bitterness.  At  last  the  whole  affair 
appeared  in  a  cynical  aspect  to  him.  She  had  really 
played  with  him,  not  he  with  her.  She  had  hidden  all 
her  condemnation  from  him,  had  flattered  him,  and  de- 
spised him.  She  despised  him  now.  He  grew  intellectual 
and  cruel. 

"  You  ought  to  marry  a  man  who  worships  you,"  he 
said ;  "  then  you  could  do  as  you  liked  with  him.  Plenty 
of  men  will  worship  you,  if  you  get  on  the  private  side 
of  their  natures.  You  ought  to  marry  one  such.  They 
would  never  fight  you  off." 

"  Thank  you !  "  she  said.  "  But  don't  advise  me  to 
marry  someone  else  any  more.  You  've  done  it  before." 

"  Very  well,"  he  said ;    "  I  will  say  no  more." 

He  sat  still,  feeling  as  if  he  had  had  a  blow,  instead 
of  giving  one.  Their  eight  years  of  friendship  and  love, 
the  eight  years  of  his  life,  were  nullified. 

"  When  did  you  think  of  this  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  thought  definitely  on  Thursday  night." 

"  I  knew  it  was  coming,"  she  said. 

That  pleased  him  bitterly.  "  Oh,  very  well !  If  she 
knew,  then  it  does  n't  come  as  a  surprise  to  her,"  he 
thought. 

"  And  have  you  said  anything  to  Clara?  "  she  asked. 

"No;    but  I  shall  tell  her  now." 


368  Sons  and  Lovers 

There  was  a  silence. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  things  you  said  this  time  last 
year,  in  my  grandmother's  house  —  nay,  last  month 
even?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said;  "  I  do!  And  I  meant  them!  I  can't 
help  that  it 's  failed." 

"  It  has  failed  because  you  want  something  else." 

"  It  would  have  failed  whether  or  not.  You  never 
believed  in  me." 

She  laughed  strangely. 

He  sat  in  silence.  He  was  full  of  a  feeling  that  she 
had  deceived  him.  She  had  despised  him  when  he  thought 
she  worshipped  him.  She  had  let  him  say  wrong  things, 
and  had  not  contradicted  him.  She  had  let  him  fight 
alone.  But  it  stuck  in  his  throat  that  she  had  despised 
him  whilst  he  thought  she  worshipped  him.  She  should 
have  told  him  when  she  found  fault  with  him.  She.  had 
not  played  fair.  He  hated  her.  All  these  years  she 
had  treated  him  as  if  he  were  a  hero,  and  thought  of  him 
secretly  as  an  infant,  a  foolish  child.  Then  why  had 
she  left  the  foolish  child  to  his  folly?  His  heart  was  hard 
against  her. 

She  sat  full  of  bitterness.  She  had  known  —  oh,  well 
she  had  known !  All  the  time  he  was  away  from  her  she 
had  summed  him  up,  seen  his  littleness,  his  meanness,  and 
his  folly.  Even  she  had  guarded  her  soul  against  him. 
She  was  not  overthrown,  nor  prostrated,  not  even  much 
hurt.  She  had  known.  Only  why,  as  he  sat  there,  had 
he  still  this  strange  dominance  over  [her?  His  very 
movements  fascinated  her  as  if  she  were  hypnotized  by 
him.  Yet  he  was  despicable,  false,  inconsistent,  and 
mean.  Why  this  bondage  for  her?  Why  was  it  the 
movement  of  his  arm  stirred  her  as  nothing  else  in  the 
world  could?  Why  was  she  fastened  to  him?  Why,  even 
now,  if  he  looked  at  her  and  commanded  her,  would  she 
have  to  obey?  She  would  obey  him  in  his  trifling  com- 
mands. But  once  he  was  obeyed,  then  she  had  him  in 
her  power,  she  knew,  to  lead  him  where  she  would.  She 


The  Test  on  Miriam  369 

was  sure  of  herself.  Only,  this  new  influence!  Ah,  he 
was  not  a  man !  He  was  a  baby  that  cries  for  the  newest 
toy.  And  all  the  attachment  of  his  soul  would  not  keep 
him.  Very  well,  he  would  have  to  go.  But  he  would 
come  back  when  he  had  tired  of  his  new  sensation. 

He  hacked  at  the  earth  till  she  was  fretted  to  death. 
She  rose.  He  sat  flinging  lumps  of  earth  in  the  stream. 

"  We  will  go  and  have  tea  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"   she  answered. 

They  chattered  over  irrevelant  subjects  during  tea. 
He  held  forth  on  the  love  of  ornament  —  the  cottage 
parlour  moved  him  thereto  —  and  its  connection  with 
aesthetics.  She  was  cold  and  quiet.  As  they  walked  home, 
she  asked: 

"  And  we  shall  not  see  each  other?  " 

"  No  —  or  rarely,"  he  answered. 

"Nor  write?"  she  asked,  almost  sarcastically. 

"  As  you  will,"  he  answered.  "  We  're  not  strangers 
—  never  should  be,  whatever  happened.  I  will  write  to 
you  now  and  again.  You  please  yourself." 

"  I  see !  "  she  answered  cuttingly. 

But  he  was  at  that  stage  at  which  nothing  else  hurts. 
He  had  made  a  great  cleavage  in  his  life.  He  had  had  a 
great  shock  when  she  told  him  their  love  had  been  al- 
ways a  conflict.  Nothing  more  mattered.  If  it  never  had 
been  much,  there  was  no  need  to  make  a  fuss  that  it  was 
ended. 

He  left  her  at  the  lane-end.  As  she  went  home,  soli- 
tary, in  her  new  frock,  having  her  people  to  face  at  the 
other  end,  he  stood  still  with  shame  and  pain  in  the 
highroad,  thinking  of  the  suffering  he  caused  her. 

In  a  reaction  towards  restoring  his  self-esteem,  he  went 
into  the  Willow  Tree  for  a  drink.  There  were  four  girls 
who  had  been  out  for  the  day,  drinking  a  modest  glass 
of  port.  They  had  some  chocolates  on  the  table.  Paul 
sat  near  with  his  whisky.  He  noticed  the  girls  whis- 
pering and  nudging.  Presently  one,  a  bonny  dark  hussy, 
leaned  to  him  and  said: 


370  Sons  and  Lovers 

"Have  a  chocolate?" 

The  others  laughed  loudly  at  her  impudence. 

"  All  right,"  said  Paul.  "  Give  me  a  hard  one  —  nut. 
I  don't  like  creams." 

"  Here  you  are,  then,"  said  the  girl ;  "  here 's  an 
almond  for  you." 

She  held  the  sweet  between  her  fingers.  He  opened  his 
mouth.  She  popped  it  in,  and  blushed. 

"  You  are  nice !  "  he  said. 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  "  we  thought  you  looked  over- 
cast, and  they  dared  me  offer  you  a  chocolate." 

"  I  don't  mind  if  I  have  another  —  another  sort,"  he 
said. 

And  presently  they  were  all  laughing  together. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  he  got  home,  falling  dark.  He 
entered  the  house  in  silence.  His  mother,  who  had  been 
waiting,  rose  anxiously. 

"  I  told  her,"  he  said. 

"  I  'm  glad,"  replied  the  mother,  with  great  relief. 

He  hung  up  his  cap  wearily. 

"  I  said  we  'd  have  done  altogether,"  he  said. 

"  That 's  right,  my  son,"  said  the  mother.  "  It 's  hard 
for  her  now,  but  best  in  the  long-run.  I  know.  You 
were  n't  suited  for  her." 

He  laughed  shakily  as  he  sat  down. 

"  I  've  had  such  a  lark  with  some  girls  in  a  pub,"  he 
said. 

His  mother  looked  at  him.  He  had  forgotten  Miriam 
now.  He  told  her  about  the  girls  in  the  Willow  Tree. 
Mrs.  Morel  looked  at  him.  It  seemed  unreal,  his  gaiety. 
At  the  back  of  it  was  too  much  horror  and  misery. 

"  Now  have  some  supper,"  she  said  very  gently. 

Afterwards  he  said  wistfully: 

"  She  never  thought  she  'd  have  me,  mother,  not  from 
the  first,  and  so  she  's  not  disappointed." 

"  I  'm  afraid,"  said  his  mother,  "  she  does  n't  give  up 
hopes  of  you  yet." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  perhaps  not." 


The  Test  on  Miriam  371 

"  You  '11  find  it 's  better  to  have  done,"  she  said. 

"  /  don't  know,"  he  said  desperately. 

"  Well,  leave  her  alone,"  replied  his  mother. 

So  he  left  her,  and  she  was  alone.  Very  few  people 
cared  for  her,  and  she  for  very  few  people.  She  re- 
mained alone  with  herself,  waiting. 


CHAPTER    XII 

PASSION 

T  TE  was  gradually  making  it  possible  to  earn  a  liveli- 
Al  hood  by  his  art.  Liberty's  had  taken  several  of  his 
painted  designs  on  various  stuffs,  and  he  could  sell  designs 
for  embroideries,  for  altar-cloths,  and  similar  things,  in 
one  or  two  places.  It  was  not  very  much  he  made  at 
present,  but  he  might  extend  it.  He  also  had  made  friends 
with  the  designer  for  a  pottery  firm,  and  was  gaining  some 
knowledge  of  his  new  acquaintance's  art.  The  applied  arts 
interested  him  very  much.  At  the  same  time  he  laboured 
slowly  at  his  pictures.  He  loved  to  paint  large  figures, 
full  of  light,  but  not  merely  made  up  of  lights  and  cast 
shadows,  like  the  impressionists;  rather  definite  figures 
that  had  a  certain  luminous  quality,  like  some  of  Michael 
Angelo's  people.  And  these  he  fitted  into  a  landscape,  in 
what  he  thought  true  proportion.  He  worked  a  great  deal 
from  memory,  using  everybody  he  knew.  He  believed 
firmly  in  his  work,  that  it  was  good  and  valuable.  In 
spite  of  fits  of  depression,  shrinking,  everything,  he  be- 
lieved in  his  work. 

He  was  twenty-four  when  he  said  his  first  confident 
thing  to  his  mother. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  I  s'll  make  a  painter  that  they  '11 
attend  to." 

She  sniffed  in  her  quaint  fashion.  It  was  like  a  half- 
pleased  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"  Very  well,  my  boy,  we  '11  see,"  she  said. 

'  You  shall  see,  my  pigeon !  You  see  if  you  're  not 
swanky  one  of  these  days !  " 

"  I  'm  quite  content,  my  boy,"  she  smiled. 

"  But  you  '11  have  to  alter.    Look  at  you  with  Minnie !  " 


Passion  373 

Minnie  was  the  small  servant,  a  girl  of  fourteen. 

"  And  what  about  Minnie?  "  asked  Mrs.  Morel,  with 
dignity. 

"I  heard  her  this  morning:  6  Eh,  Mrs.  Morel!  I  was 
going  to  do  that,'  wjien  you  went  out  in  the  rain  for  some 
coal,"  he  said.  "  That  looks  a  lot  like  your  being  able  to 
manage  servants !  " 

"  Well,  it  was  only  the  child's  niceness,"  said  Mrs. 
Morel. 

"  And  you  apologizing  to  her :  *  You  can't  do  two 
things  at  once,  can  you?  ' 

"  She  was  busy  washing  up,"  replied  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ?  '  It  could  easy  have  waited  a 
bit.  Now  look  how  your  feet  paddle ! ' 

"  Yes  —  brazen  young  baggage !  "  said  Mrs.  Morel, 
smiling. 

He  looked  at  his  mother,  laughing.  She  was  quite 
warm  and  rosy  again  with  love  of  him.  It  seemed  as  if 
all  the  sunshine  were  on  her  for  a  moment.  He  continued 
his  work  gladly.  She  seemed  so  well  when  she  was  happy 
that  he  forgot  her  grey  hair. 

And  that  year  she  went  with  him  to  the  Isle  of  Wight 
for  a  holiday.  It  was  too  exciting  for  them  both,  and  too 
beautiful.  Mrs.  Morel  was  full  of  joy  and  wonder.  But 
he  would  have  her  walk  with  him  more  than  she  was  able. 
She  had  a  bad  fainting  bout.  So  grey  her  face  was,  so 
blue  her  mouth!  It  was  agony  to  him.  He  felt  as  if 
someone  were  pushing  a  knife  in  his  chest.  Then  she  was 
better  again,  and  he  forgot.  But  the  anxiety  remained 
inside  him,  like  a  wound  that  did  not  close. 

After  leaving  Miriam  he  went  almost  straight  to  Clara. 
On  the  Monday  following  the  day  of  the  rupture  he  went 
down  to  the  work-room.  She  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled. 
They  had  grown  very  intimate  unawares.  She  saw  a  new 
brightness  about  him. 

"  Well,  Queen  of  Sheba ! "  he  said,  laughing. 

"  But  why?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  think  it  suits  you.    You  've  got  a  new  frock  on." 


374  Sons  and  Lovers 

She  flushed,  asking: 

"And  what  of  it?" 

"  Suits  you  —  awfully !     /  could  design  you  a  dress." 

"How  would  it  be?" 

He  stood  in  front  of  her,  his  eyes  glittering  as  he  ex- 
pounded. He  kept  her  eyes  fixed  with  his.  Then  sud- 
denly he  took  hold  of  her.  She  half  started  back.  He 
drew  the  stuff  of  her  blouse  tighter,  smoothed  it  over  her 
breast. 

"  More  so!  "  he  explained. 

But  they  were  both  of  them  flaming  with  blushes,  and 
immediately  he  ran  away.  He  had  touched  her.  His 
whole  body  was  quivering  with  the  sensation. 

There  was  already  a  sort  of  secret  understanding  be- 
tween them.  The  next  evening  he  went  into  the  cinemato- 
graph with  her  for  a  few  minutes  before  train-time.  As 
they  sat,  he  saw  her  hand  lying  near  him.  For  some 
moments  he  dared  not  touch  it.  The  pictures  danced  and 
dithered.  Then  he  took  her  hand  in  his.  It  was  large 
and  firm ;  it  filled  his  grasp.  He  held  it  fast.  She  neither 
moved  nor  made  any  sign.  When  they  came  out  his  train 
was  due.  He  hesitated. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said.  He  darted  away  across  the 
road. 

The  next  day  he  came  again,  talking  to  her.  She  was 
rather  superior  with  him. 

"  Shall  we  go  a  walk  on  Monday?  "  he  asked. 

She  turned  her  face  aside. 

"  Shall  you  tell  Miriam?  "  she  replied  sarcastically. 

"  I  have  broken  off  with  her,"  he  said. 

"When?" 

"  Last  Sunday." 

"You  quarrelled?" 

"  No !  I  had  made  up  my  mind.  I  told  her  quite  defi- 
nitely I  should  consider  myself  free." 

Clara  did  not  answer,  and  he  returned  to  his  work. 
She  was  so  quiet  and  so  superb! 

On  the  Saturday  evening  he  asked  her  to  come  and 


Passion  375 

drink  coffee  with  him  in  a  restaurant,  meeting  him  after 
work  was  over.  She  came,  looking  very  reserved  and  very 
distant.  He  had  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  train-time. 

"  We  will  walk  a  little  while,"  he  said. 

She  agreed,  and  they  went  past  the  Castle  into  the 
Park.  He  was  afraid  of  her.  She  walked  moodily  at  his 
side,  with  a  kind  of  resentful,  reluctant,  angry  walk.  He 
was  afraid  to  take  her  hand. 

"  Which  way  shall  we  go  ?  "  he  asked  as  they  walked  in 
darkness. 

"  I  don't  mind." 

"  Then  we  '11  go  up  the  steps." 

He  suddenly  turned  round.  They  had  passed  the  Park 
steps.  She  stood  still  in  resentment  at  his  suddenly 
abandoning  her.  He  looked  for  her.  She  stood  aloof. 
He  caught  her  suddenly  in  his  arms,  held  her  strained 
for  a  moment,  kissed  her.  Then  he  let  her  go. 

"  Come  along,"  he  said,  penitent. 

She  followed  him.  He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  her 
finger-tips.  They  went  in  silence.  When  they  came  to  the 
light,  he  let  go  her  hand.  Neither  spoke  till  they  reached 
the  station.  Then  they  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said. 

And  he  went  for  his  train.  His  body  acted  mechani- 
cally. People  talked  to  him.  He  heard  faint  echoes 
answering  them.  He  was  in  a  delirium.  He  felt  that  he 
would  go  mad  if  Monday  did  not  come  at  once.  On 
Monday  he  would  see  her  again.  All  himself  was  pitched 
there,  ahead.  Sunday  intervened.  He  could  not  bear  it. 
He  could  not  see  her  till  Monday.  And  Sunday  intervened 
—  hour  after  hour  of  tension.  He  wanted  to  beat  his 
head  against  the  door  of  the  carriage.  But  he  sat  still. 
He  drank  some  whisky  on  the  way  home,  but  it  only  made 
it  worse.  His  mother  must  not  be  upset,  that  was  all. 
He  dissembled,  and  got  quickly  to  bed.  There  he  sat, 
dressed,  with  his  chin  on  his  knees,  staring  out  of  the 
window  at  the  far  hill,  with  its  few  lights.  He  neither 
thought  nor  slept,  but  sat  perfectly  still,  staring.  And 


376  Sons  and  Lovers 

when  at  last  he  was  so  cold  that  he  came  to  himself,  he 
found  his  watch  had  stopped  at  half-past  two.  It  was 
after  three  o'clock.  He  was  exhausted,  but  still  there  was 
the  torment  of  knowing  it  was  only  Sunday  morning.  He 
went  to  bed  and  slept.  Then  he  cycled  all  day  long,  till 
he  was  fagged  out.  And  he  scarcely  knew  where  he  had 
been.  But  the  day  after  was  Monday.  He  slept  till  four 
o'clock.  Then  he  lay  and  thought.  He  was  coming  nearer 
to  himself  —  he  could  see  himself,  real,  somewhere  in  front. 
She  would  go  a  walk  with  him  in  the  afternoon.  After- 
noon !  It  seemed  years  ahead. 

Slowly  the  hours  crawled.  His  father  got  up ;  he  heard 
him  pottering  about.  Then  the  miner  set  off  to  the  pit, 
his  heavy  boots  scraping  the  yard.  Cocks  were  still  crow- 
ing. A  cart  went  down  the  road.  His  mother  got  up. 
She  knocked  the  fire.  Presently  she  called  him  softly. 
He  answered  as  if  he  were  asleep.  This  shell  of  himself 
did  well. 

He  was  walking  to  the  station  —  another  mile !  The 
train  was  near  Nottingham.  Would  it  stop  before  the 
tunnels  ?  But  it  did  not  matter ;  it  would  get  there  before 
dinner-time.  He  was  at  Jordan's.  She  would  come  in 
half  an  hour.  At  any  rate,  she  would  be  near.  He  had 
done  the  letters.  She  would  be  there.  Perhaps  she  had 
not  come.  He  ran  downstairs.  Ah!  he  saw  her  through 
the  glass  door.  Her  shoulders  stooping  a  little  to  her 
work  made  him  feel  he  could  not  go  forward ;  he  could  not 
stand.  He  went  in.  He  was  pale,  nervous,  awkward,  and 
quite  cold.  Would  she  misunderstand  him?  He  could 
not  write  his  real  self  with  this  shell. 

"  And  this  afternoon,"  he  struggled  to  say.  "  You  will 
come?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  she  replied,  murmuring. 

He  stood  before  her,  unable  to  say  a  word.  She  hid  her 
face  from  him.  Again  came  over  him  the  feeling  that  he 
would  lose  consciousness.  He  set  his  teeth  and  went  up- 
stairs. He  had  done  everything  correctly  yet,  and  he 
would  do  so.  All  the  morning  things  seemed  a  long  way 


Passion  377 

off,  as  they  do  to  a  man  under  chloroform.  He  himself 
seemed  under  a  tight  band  of  constraint.  Then  there  was 
his  other  self,  in  the  distance,  doing  things,  entering  stuff 
in  a  ledger,  and  he  watched  that  far-off  him  carefully  to 
see  he  made  no  mistake. 

But  the  ache  and  strain  of  it  could  not  go  on  much 
longer.  He  worked  incessantly.  Still  it  was  only  twelve 
o'clock.  As  if  he  had  nailed  his  clothing  against  the  desk, 
he  stood  there  and  worked,  forcing  every  stroke  out  of 
himself.  It  was  a  quarter  to  one;  he  could  clear  away. 
Then  he  ran  downstairs. 

"  You  will  meet  me  at  the  Fountain  at  two  o'clock,"  he 
said. 

"  I  can't  be  there  till  half-past." 

"Yes!"  he  said. 

She  saw  his  dark,  mad  eyes. 

"  I  will  try  at  a  quarter-past." 

And  he  had  to  be  content.  He  went  and  got  some  din- 
ner. All  the  time  he  was  still  under  chloroform,  and  every 
minute  was  stretched  out  indefinitely.  He  walked  miles 
of  street.  Then  he  thought  he  would  be  late  at  the  meet- 
ing-place. He  was  at  the  Fountain  at  five  past  two.  The 
torture  of  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  was  refined  beyond 
expression.  It  was  the  anguish  of  combining  the  living 
self  with  the  shell.  Then  he  saw  her.  She  came!  And 
he  was  there. 

"  You  are  late,"  he  said. 

"  Only  five  minutes,"  she  answered. 

"  I  'd  never  have  done  it  to  you,"  he  laughed. 

She  was  in  a  dark  blue  costume.  He  looked  at  her 
beautiful  figure. 

"  You  want  some  flowers,"  he  said,  going  to  the  nearest 
florists. 

She  followed  him  in  silence.  He  bought  her  a  bunch  of 
scarlet,  brick-red  carnations.  She  put  them  in  her  coat, 
flushing. 

"  That 's  a  fine  colour !  "  he  said. 

"  I  'd  rather  have  had  something  softer,"  she  said. 


378  Sons  and  Lovers 

He  laughed. 

"  Do  you  feel  like  a  blot  of  vermilion  walking  down 
the  street !  "  he  said. 

She  hung  her  head,  afraid  of  the  people  they  met.  He 
looked  sideways  at  her  as  they  walked.  There  was  a  won- 
derful close  down  on  her  face  near  the  ear  that  he  wanted 
to  touch.  And  a  certain  heaviness,  the  heaviness  of  a 
very  full  ear  of  corn  that  dips  slightly  in  the  wind,  that 
there  was  about  her,  made  his  brain  spin.  He  seemed 
to  be  spinning  down  the  street,  everything  going  round. 

As  they  sat  in  the  tramcar,  she  leaned  her  heavy  shoul- 
der against  him,  and  he  took  her  hand.  He  felt  himself 
coming  round  from  the  anaesthetic,  beginning  to  breathe. 
Her  ear,  half  hidden  among  her  blonde  hair,  was  near  to 
him.  The  temptation  to  kiss  it  was  almost  too  great. 
But  there  were  other  people  on  top  of  the  car.  It  still 
remained  to  him  to  kiss  it.  After  all,  he  was  not  him- 
self, he  was  some  attribute  of  hers,  like  the  sunshine  that 
fell  on  her. 

He  looked  quickly  away.  It  had  been  raining.  The 
big  bluff  of  the  Castle  rock  was  streaked  with  rain,  as 
it  reared  above  the  flat  of  the  town.  They  crossed  the 
wide,  black  space  of  the  Midland  Railway,  and  passed  the 
cattle  enclosure  that  stood  out  white.  Then  they  ran 
down  sordid  Wilford  Road. 

She  rocked  slightly  to  the  tram's  motion,  and  as  she 
leaned  against  him,  rocked  upon  him.  He  was  a  vigorous, 
slender  man,  with  exhaustless  energy.  His  face  was  rough, 
with  rough-hewn  features,  like  the  common  people's ;  but 
his  eyes  under  the  deep  brows  were  so  full  of  life  that  they 
fascinated  her.  They  seemed  to  dance,  and  yet  they  were 
still,  trembling  on  the  finest  balance  of  laughter.  His 
mouth  the  same  was  just  going  to  spring  into  a  laugh 
of  triumph,  yet  did  not.  There  was  a  sharp  suspense 
about  him.  She  bit  her  lip  moodily.  His  hand  was 
hard  clenched  over  hers. 

They  paid  their  two  halfpennies  at  the  turnstile  and 
crossed  the  bridge.  The  Trent  was  very  full.  It  swept 


Passion  379 

silent  and  insidious  under  the  bridge,  travelling  in  a  soft 
body.  There  had  been  a  great  deal  of  rain.  On  the 
river  levels  were  flat  gleams  of  flood  water.  The  sky 
was  grey,  with  glisten  of  silver  here  and  there.  In  Wilford 
Churchyard  the  dahlias  were  sodden  with  rain  —  wet 
black-crimson  balls.  No  one  was  on  the  path  that 
went  along  the  green  river  meadow,  along  the  elm-tree 
colonnade. 

There  was  the  faintest  haze  over  the  silvery-dark  water 
and  the  green  meadow-banks,  and  the  elm-trees  that  were 
spangled  with  gold.  The  river  slid  by  in  a  body,  utterly 
silent  and  swift,  intertwining  among  itself  like  some  subtle, 
complex  creature.  Clara  walked  moodily  beside  him. 

"  Why,"  she  asked  at  length,  in  rather  a  jarring  tone, 
"  did  you  leave  Miriam?  " 

He  frowned. 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  leave  her,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  did  n't  want  to  go  on  with  her.  And  I 
did  n't  want  to  marry." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  They  picked  their  way 
down  the  muddy  path.  Drops  of  water  fell  from  the  elm- 
trees. 

"  You  did  n't  want  to  marry  Miriam,  or  you  did  n't 
want  to  marry  at  all?  "  she  asked. 

"  Both,"  he  answered  —  "  both !  " 

They  had  to  manoeuvre  to  get  to  the  stile,  because  of 
the  pools  of  water. 

"  And  what  did  she  say?  "  Clara  asked. 

"  Miriam?  She  said  I  was  a  baby  of  four,  and  that  I 
always  had  battled  her  off." 

Clara  pondered  over  this  for  a  time. 

"  But  you  have  really  been  going  with  her  for  some 
time?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  now  you  don't  want  any  more  of  her?  " 

"  No.    I  know  it 's  no  good." 

She  pondered  again. 


380  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Don't  you  think  you  've  treated  her  rather  badly?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Yes ;  I  ought  to  have  dropped  it  years  back.  But  it 
would  have  been  no  good  going  on.  Two  wrongs  don't 
make  a  right." 

"  How  old  are  you?  "  Clara  asked. 

"  Twenty-five." 

"  And  I  am  thirty,"  she  said. 

"  I  know  you  are." 

"  I  shall  be  thirty-one  —  or  am  I  thirty-one  ?  " 

"  I  neither  know  nor  care.    What  does  it  matter  it !  " 

They  were  at  the  entrance  to  the  Grove.  The  wet,  red 
track,  already  sticky  with  fallen  leaves,  went  up  the  steep 
bank  between  the  grass.  On  either  side  stood  the  elm- 
trees  like  pillars  along  a  great  aisle,  arching  over  and 
making  high  up  a  roof  from  which  the  dead  leaves  fell. 
All  was  empty  and  silent  and  wet.  She  stood  on  top  of 
the  stile,  and  he  held  both  her  hands.  Laughing,  she 
looked  down  into  his  eyes.  Then  she  leaped.  Her  breast 
came  against  his ;  he  held  her,  and  covered  her  face  with 
kisses. 

They  went  on  up  the  slippery,  steep  red  path.  Pres- 
ently she  released  his  hand  and  put  it  round  her 
waist. 

"  You  press  the  vein  in  my  arm,  holding  it  so  tightly," 
she  said. 

They  walked  along.  His  finger-tips  felt  the  rocking  of 
her  breast.  All  was  silent  and  deserted.  On  the  left  the 
red  wet  plough-land  showed  through  the  doorways  be- 
tween the  elm-boles  and  their  branches.  On  the  right, 
looking  down,  they  could  see  the  tree-tops  of  elms  grow- 
ing far  beneath  them,  hear  occasionally  the  gurgle  of  the 
river.  Sometimes  there  below  they  caught  glimpses  of  the 
full,  soft-sliding  Trent,  and  of  water-meadows  dotted  with 
small  cattle. 

"  It  has  scarcely  altered  since  little  Kirke  White  used 
to  come,"  he  said. 

But  he  was  watching  her  throat  below  the  ear,  where 


Passion  381 

the  flush  was  fusing  into  the  honey-white,  and  her  mouth 
that  pouted  disconsolate.  She  stirred  against  him  as  she 
walked,  and  his  body  was  like  a  taut  string. 

Half-way  up  the  big  colonnade  of  elms,  where  the 
Grove  rose  highest  above  the  river,  their  forward  move- 
ment faltered  to  an  end.  He  led  her  across  to  the  grass, 
under  the  trees  at  the  edge  of  the  path.  The  cliff  of  red 
earth  sloped  swiftly  down,  through  trees  and  bushes,  to 
the  river  that  glimmered  and  was  dark  between  the  foliage. 
The  far-below  water-meadows  were  very  green.  He  and 
she  stood  leaning  against  one  another,  silent,  afraid,  their 
bodies  touching  all  along.  There  came  a  quick  gurgle 
from  the  river  below. 

"Why,"  he  asked  at  length,  "did  you  hate  Baxter 
Dawes?" 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  splendid  movement.  Her 
mouth  was  offered  him,  and  her  throat;  her  eyes  were 
half  shut;  her  breast  was  tilted  as  if  it  asked  for  him. 
He  flashed  with  a  small  laugh,  shut  his  eyes,  and  met  her 
in  a  long,  whole  kiss.  Her  mouth  fused  with  his;  their 
bodies  were  sealed  and  annealed.  It  was  some  minutes 
before  they  withdrew.  They  were  standing  beside  the 
public  path. 

"  Will  you  go  down  to  the  river?  "  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him,  leaving  herself  in  his  hands.  He 
went  over  the  brim  of  the  declivity  and  began  to  climb 
down. 

"  It  is  slippery,"  he  said. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  replied. 

The  red  clay  went  down  almost  sheer.  He  slid,  went 
from  one  tuft  of  grass  to  the  next,  hanging  on  to  the 
bushes,  making  for  a  little  platform  at  the  foot  of  a  tree. 
There  he  waited  for  her,  laughing  with  excitement.  Her 
shoes  were  clogged  with  red  earth.  It  was  hard  for  her. 
He  frowned.  At  last  he  caught  her  hand,  and  she  stood 
beside  him.  The  cliff  rose  above  them  and  fell  away  be- 
low. Her  colour  was  up,  her  eyes  flashed.  He  looked 
at  the  big  drop  below  them. 


382  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  It 's  risky,"  he  said;  "  or  messy,  at  any  rate.  Shall 
we  go  back?  " 

"  Not  for  my  sake,"  she  said  quickly. 

"  All  right.  You  see,  I  can't  help  you ;  I  should  only 
hinder.  Give  me  that  little  parcel  and  your  gloves.  Your 
poor  shoes !  " 

They  stood  perched  on  the  face  of  the  declivity,  under 
the  trees. 

"  Well,  I  '11  go  again,"  he  said. 

Away  he  went,  slipping,  staggering,  sliding  to  the  next 
tree,  into  which  he  fell  with  a  slam  that  nearly  shook  the 
breath  out  of  him.  She  came  after  cautiously,  hanging 
on  to  the  twigs  and  grasses.  So  they  descended,  stage  by 
stage,  to  the  river's  brink.  There,  to  his  disgust,  the  flood 
had  eaten  away  the  path,  and  the  red  decline  ran  straight 
into  the  water.  He  dug  in  his  heels  and  brought  himself 
up  violently.  The  string  of  the  parcel  broke  with  a  snap ; 
the  brown  parcel  bounded  down,  leaped  into  the  water, 
and  sailed  smoothly  away.  He  hung  on  to  his  tree. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!"  he  cried  crossly.  Then  he 
laughed.  She  was  coming  perilously  down. 

"  Mind !  "  he  warned  her.  He  stood  with  his  back  to 
the  tree,  waiting.  "  Come  now,"  he  called,  opening  his 
arms. 

She  let  herself  run.  He  caught  her,  and  together  they 
stood  watching  the  dark  water  scoop  at  the  raw  edge  of 
the  bank.  The  parcel  had  sailed  out  of  sight. 

"  It  does  n't  matter,"  she  said. 

He  held  her  close  and  kissed  her.  There  was  only  room 
for  their  four  feet. 

"  It  's  a  swindle !  "  he  said.  "  But  there  's  a  rut  where 
a  man  has  been,  so  if  we  go  on  I  guess  we  shall  find  the 
path  again." 

The  river  slid  and  twined  its  great  volume..  On  the 
other  bank  cattle  were  feeding  on  the  desolate  flats.  The 
cliff  rose  high  above  Paul  and  Clara  on  their  right  hand. 
They  stood  against  the  tree  in  the  watery  silence. 

"  Let  us  try  going  forward,"  he  said ;    and  they  strug- 


Passion  383 

gled  in  the  red  clay  along  the  groove  a  man's  nailed 
boots  had  made.  They  were  hot  and  flushed.  Their 
barkled  shoes  hung  heavy  on  their  steps.  At  last  they 
found  the  broken  path.  It  was  littered  with  rubble  from 
the  water,  but  at  any  rate  it  was  easier.  They  cleaned 
their  boots  with  twigs.  His  heart  was  beating  thick  and 
fast. 

Suddenly,  coming  on  to  the  little  level,  he  saw  two  fig- 
ures of  men  standing  silent  at  the  water's  edge.  His 
heart  leaped.  They  were  fishing.  He  turned  and  put  his 
hand  up  warningly  to  Clara.  She  hesitated,  buttoned  her 
coat.  The  two  went  on  together. 

The  fishermen  turned  curiously  to  watch  the  two  in- 
truders on  their  privacy  and  solitude.  They  had  had  a 
fire,  but  it  was  nearly  out.  All  kept  perfectly  still.  The 
men  turned  again  to  their  fishing,  stood  over  the  grey 
glinting  river  like  statues.  Clara  went  with  bowed  head, 
flushing;  he  was  laughing  to  himself.  Directly  they 
passed  out  of  sight  behind  the  willows. 

"  Now  they  ought  to  be  drowned,"  said  Paul  softly. 

Clara  did  not  answer.  They  toiled  forward  along  a  tiny 
path  on  the  river's  lip.  Suddenly  it  vanished.  The  bank 
was  sheer  red  solid  clay  in  front  of  them,  sloping  straight 
into  the  river.  He  stood  and  cursed  beneath  his  breath, 
setting  his  teeth. 

"  It  is  impossible !  "  said  Clara. 

He  stood  erect,  looking  round.  Just  ahead  were  two 
islets  in  the  stream,  covered  with  osiers.  But  they  were 
unattainable.  The  cliff  came  down  like  a  sloping  wall 
from  far  above  their  heads.  Behind,  not  far  back,  were 
the  fishermen.  Across  the  river  the  distant  cattle  fed 
silently  in  the  desolate  afternoon.  He  cursed  again  deeply 
under  his  breath.  He  gazed  up  the  great  steep  bank. 
Was  there  no  hope  but  to  scale  back  to  the  public  path? 

"  Stop  a  minute,"  he  said,  and,  digging  his  heels  side- 
ways into  the  steep  bank  of  red  clay,  he  began  nimbly 
to  mount.  He  looked  across  at  every  tree-foot.  At  last 
he  found  what  he  wanted.  Two  beech-trees  side  by  side 


384  Sons  and  Lovers 

on  the  hill  held  a  little  level  on  the  upper  face  between 
their  roots.  It  was  littered  with  damp  leaves,  but  it  would 
do.  The  fishermen  were  perhaps  sufficiently  out  of  sight. 
He  threw  down  his  rainproof  and  waved  to  her  to 
come. 

She  toiled  to  his  side.  Arriving  there,  she  looked  at  him 
heavily,  dumbly,  and  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  He 
held  her  fast  as  he  looked  round.  They  were  safe  enough 
from  all  but  the  small,  lonely  cows  over  the  river.  He 
sunk  his  mouth  on  her  throat,  where  he  felt  her  heavy 
pulse  beat  under  his  lips.  Everything  was  perfectly  still. 
There  was  nothing  in  the  afternoon  but  themselves. 

When  she  arose,  he,  looking  on  the  ground  all  the  time, 
saw  suddenly  sprinkled  on  the  black,  wet  beech-roots  many 
scarlet  carnation  petals,  like  splashed  drops  of  blood ;  and 
red,  small  splashes  fell  from  her  bosom,  streaming  down 
her  dress  to  her  feet. 

'*  Your  flowers  are  smashed,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  heavily  as  she  put  back  her  hair. 
Suddenly  he  put  his  finger-tips  on  her  cheek. 

"  Why  dost  look  so  heavy?  "  he  reproached  her. 

She  smiled  sadly,  as  if  she  felt  alone  in  herself.  He 
caressed  her  cheek  with  his  fingers,  and  kissed  her. 

"  Nay !  "  he  said.    "  Never  thee  bother !  " 

She  gripped  his  fingers  tight,  and  laughed  shakily. 
Then  she  dropped  her  hand.  He  put  the  hair  back  from 
her  brows,  stroking  her  temples,  kissing  them  lightly. 

"  But  tha  shouldna  worrit !  "  he  said  softly,  pleading. 

"  No,  I  don't  worry ! "  she  laughed  tenderly  and 
resigned. 

"  Yea,  tha  does !  Dunna  thee  worrit,"  he  implored, 
caressing. 

"  No !  "  she  consoled  him,  kissing  him. 

They  had  a  stiff  climb  to  get  to  the  top  again.  It  took 
them  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  When  he  got  on  to  the  level 
grass,  he  threw  off  his  cap,  wiped  the  sweat  from  his 
forehead,  and  sighed. 

"  Now  we  're  back  at  the  ordinary  level,"  he  said. 


Passion  385 

She  sat  down,  panting,  on  the  tussocky  grass.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed  pink.  He  kissed  her,  and  she  gave 
way  to  joy. 

"  And  now  I  '11  clean  thy  boots  and  make  thee  fit  for 
respectable  folk,"  he  said. 

He  kneeled  at  her  feet,  worked  away  with  a  stick  and 
tufts  of  grass.  She  put  her  fingers  in  his  hair,  drew  his 
head  to  her,  and  kissed  it. 

"  What  am  I  supposed  to  be  doing,"  he  said,  looking 
at  her  laughing;  "cleaning  shoes  or  dibbling  with  love? 
Answer  me  that !  " 

"  Just  whichever  I  please,"  she  replied. 

"  I  'm  your  boot-boy  for  the  time  being,  and  nothing 
else !  "  But  they  remained  looking  into  each  other's  eyes 
and  laughing.  Then  they  kissed  with  little  nibbling  kisses. 

"  T-t-t-t !  "  he  went  with  his  tongue,  like  his  mother. 
"  I  tell  you,  nothing  gets  done  when  there  's  a  woman 
about." 

And  he  returned  to  his  boot-cleaning,  singing  softly. 
She  touched  his  thick  hair,  and  he  kissed  her  fingers.  He 
worked  away  at  her  shoes.  At  last  they  were  quite 
presentable. 

"  There  you  are,  you  see !  "  he  said.  "  Are  n't  I  a  great 
hand  at  restoring  you  to  respectability?  Stand  up! 
There,  you  look  as  irreproachable  as  Britannia  herself !  " 

He  cleaned  his  own  boots  a  little,  washed  his  hands  in 
a  puddle,  and  sang.  They  went  on  into  Clifton  village. 
He  was  madly  in  love  with  her;  every  movement  she 
made,  every  crease  in  her  garments,  sent  a  hot  flash 
through  him  and  seemed  adorable. 

The  old  lady  at  whose  house  they  had  tea  was  roused 
into  gaiety  by  them. 

"  I  could  wish  you  'd  had  something  of  a  better  day," 
she  said,  hovering  round. 

"  Nay !  "  he  laughed.  "  We  've  been  saying  how  nice 
it  is." 

The  old  lady  looked  at  him  curiously.  There  was  a 
peculiar  glow  and  charm  about  him.  His  eyes  were  dark 


386  Sons  and  Lovers 

and  laughing.  He  rubbed  his  moustache  with  a  glad 
movement. 

"  Have  you  been  saying  so!  "  she  exclaimed,  a  light 
rousing  in  her  old  eyes. 

"Truly!"  he  laughed. 

"  Then  I  'm  sure  the  day  's  good  enough,"  said  the  old 
lady.  She  fussed  about,  and  did  not  want  to  leave  them. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  'd  like  some  radishes  as 
well,"  she  said  to  Clara ;  "  but  I  've  got  some  in  the  gar- 
den —  and  a  cucumber." 

Clara  flushed.    She  looked  very  handsome. 

"  I  should  like  some  radishes,"  she  answered. 

And  the  old  lady  pottered  off  gleefully. 

"  If  she  knew !  "  said  Clara  quietly  to  him. 

"  Well,  she  does  n't  know ;  and  it  shows  we  're  nice  in 
ourselves,  at  any  rate.  You  look  quite  enough  to  satisfy 
an  archangel,  and  I  'm  sure  I  feel  harmless  —  so  —  if  it 
makes  you  look  nice,  and  makes  folk  happy  when  they 
have  us,  and  makes  us  happy  —  why,  we  're  not  cheating 
them  out  of  much !  " 

They  went  on  with  the  meal.  When  they  were  going 
away,  the  old  lady  came  timidly  with  three  tiny  dahlias 
in  full  blow,  neat  as  bees,  and  speckled  scarlet  and  white. 
She  stood  before  Clara,  pleased  with  herself,  saying: 

"  I  don't  know  whether  —  "  and  holding  the  flowers 
forward  in  her  old  hand. 

"  Oh,  how  pretty !  "  cried  Clara,  accepting  the  flowers. 

"  Shall  she  have  them  all?  "  asked  Paul  reproachfully 
of  the  old  woman. 

"  Yes,  she  shall  have  them  all,"  she  replied,  beaming 
with  joy.  "  You  have  got  enough  for  your  share." 

"  Ah,  but  I  shall  ask  her  to  give  me  one !  "  he  teased. 

"  Then  she  does  as  she  pleases,"  said  the  old  lady, 
smiling.  And  she  bobbed  a  little  curtsey  of  delight. 

Clara  was  rather  quiet  and  uncomfortable.  As  they 
walked  along,  he  said: 

"  You  don't  feel  criminal,  do  you  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  startled  grey  eyes. 


Passion  387 

"Criminal!  "she  said.     "No." 

"  But  you  seem  to  feel  you  have  done  a  wrong?  " 

"  No,"  she  said.    "  I  only  think,  '  If  they  knew ! '  " 

"  If  they  knew,  they  'd  cease  to  understand.  As  it  is, 
they  do  understand,  and  they  like  it.  What  do  they 
matter?  Here,  with  only  the  trees  and  me,  you  don't  feel 
not  the  least  bit  wrong,  do  you?  " 

He  took  her  by  the  arm,  held  her  facing  him,  holding 
her  eyes  with  his.  Something  fretted  him. 

"  Not  sinners,  are  we?  "  he  said,  with  an  uneasy  little 
frown. 

"  No,"  she  replied. 

He  kissed  her,  laughing. 

"  You  like  your  little  bit  of  guiltiness,  I  believe,"  he 
said.  "  I  believe  Eve  enjoyed  it,  when  she  went  cowering 
out  of  Paradise." 

But  there  was  a  certain  glow  and  quietness  about  her 
that  made  him  glad.  When  he  was  alone  in  the  railway- 
carriage,  he  found  himself  tumultuously  happy,  and  the 
people  exceedingly  nice,  and  the  night  lovely,  and  every- 
thing good. 

Mrs.  Morel  was  sitting  reading  when  he  got  home.  Her 
health  was  not  good  now,  and  there  had  come  that  ivory 
pallor  into  her  face  which  he  never  noticed,  and  which 
afterwards  he  never  forgot.  She  did  not  mention  her 
own  ill-health  to  him.  After  all,  she  thought,  it  was  not 
much. 

"  You  are  late !  "  she  said,  looking  at  him. 

His  eyes  were  shining;  his  face  seemed  to  glow.  He 
smiled  to  her. 

"  Yes ;    I  've  been  down  Clifton  Grove  with  Clara." 

His  mother  looked  at  him  again. 

"But  won't  people  talk?"  she  said. 

"  Why  ?  They  know  she  's  a  suffragette,  and  so  on. 
And  what  if  they  do  talk !  " 

"  Of  course,  there  may  be  nothing  wrong  in  it,"  said 
his  mother.  "  But  you  know  what  folk  are,  and  if  once 
she  gets  talked  about  —  " 


388  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  it.  Their  j  aw  is  n't  so  almighty 
important,  after  all." 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  consider  her." 

"So  I  do!  What  can  people  say?  —  that  we  take  a 
walk  together.  I  believe  you  're  jealous." 

"  You  know  I  should  be  glad  if  she  were  n't  a  married 
woman." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  she  lives  separate  from  her  husband, 
and  talks  on  platforms ;  so  she  's  already  singled  out  from 
the  sheep,  and,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  has  n't  much  to  lose. 
No ;  her  life  's  nothing  to  her,  so  what 's  the  worth  of 
nothing?  She  goes  with  me  —  it  becomes  something. 
Then  she  must  pay  —  we  both  must  pay !  Folk  are  so 
frightened  of  paying;  they  'd  rather  starve  and  die." 

"  Very  well,  my  son.     We  '11  see  how  it  will  end." 

"  Very  well,  my  mother.    I  '11  abide  by  the  end." 

"We'll  see!" 

"  And  she  's  —  she  's  awfully  nice,  mother ;  she  is  really ! 
You  don't  know !  " 

"  That 's  not  the  same  as  marrying  her." 

"  It 's  perhaps  better." 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  while.  He  wanted  to  ask  his 
mother  something,  but  was  afraid. 

"  Should  you  like  to  know  her?  "    He  hesitated. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Morel  coolly.  "  I  should  like  to 
know  what  she  's  like." 

"  But  she 's  nice,  mother,  she  is  1  And  not  a  bit 
common !  " 

"  I  never  suggested  she  was." 

"  But  you  seem  to  think  she  's  —  not  as  good  as  — 
She  's  better  than  ninety-nine  folk  out  of  a  hundred,  I  tell 
you !  She  's  better,  she  is !  She  's  fair,  she  's  honest,  she  's 
straight !  There  is  n't  anything  underhand  or  superior 
about  her.  Don't  be  mean  about  her !  " 

Mrs.  Morel  flushed. 

"  I  am  sure  I  am  not  mean  about  her.  She  may  be 
quite  as  you  say,  but  —  " 

"  You  don't  approve,"  he  finished. 


Passion  389 

"  And  do  you  expect  me  to  ?  "  she  answered  coldly. 

"  Yes !  —  yes  !  —  if  you  'd  anything  about  you,  you  'd 
be  glad!  Do  you  want  to  see  her?  " 

"  I  said  I  did." 

"  Then  I  '11  bring  her  —  shall  I  bring  her  here?  " 

"  You  please  yourself." 

"  Then  I  will  bring  her  here  —  one  Sunday  —  to  tea. 
If  you  think  a  horrid  thing  about  her,  I  shan't  forgive 
you." 

His  mother  laughed. 

"  As  if  it  would  make  any  difference ! "  she  said.  He 
knew  he  had  won. 

"  Oh,  but  it  feels  so  fine,  mother,  when  she 's  there ! 
She  's  such  a  queen  in  her  way." 

Occasionally  he  still  walked  a  little  way  from  chapel 
with  Miriam  and  Edgar.  He  did  not  go  up  to  the  farm. 
She,  however,  was  very  much  the  same  with  him,  and  he 
did  not  feel  embarrassed  in  her  presence.  One  evening 
she  was  alone  when  he  accompanied  her.  They  began  by 
talking  books ;  it  was  their  unfailing  topic.  Mrs.  Morel 
had  said  that  his  and  Miriam's  affair  was  like  a  fire  fed 
on  books  —  if  there  were  no  more  volumes  it  would  die 
out.  Miriam,  for  her  part,  boasted  that  she  could  read 
him  like  a  book,  could  place  her  finger  any  minute  on  the 
chapter  and  the  line.  He,  easily  taken  in,  believed  that 
Miriam  knew  more  about  him  than  anyone  else.  So  it 
pleased  him  to  talk  to  her  about  himself,  like  the  simplest 
egoist.  Very  soon  the  conversation  drifted  to  his  own 
doings.  It  flattered  him  immensely  that  he  was  of  such 
supreme  interest. 

"  And  what  have  you  been  doing  lately  ?  " 

"I  —  oh,  not  much !  I  made  a  sketch  of  Bestwood  from 
the  garden,  that  is  nearly  right  at  last.  It 's  the  hun- 
dredth try." 

So  they  went  on.    Then  she  said : 

"  You  've  not  been  out,  then,  lately  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  went  up  Clifton  Grove  on  Monday  afternoon 
with  Clara." 


390  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  It  was  not  very  nice  weather,"  said  Miriam,  "  was  it?  " 

"  But  I  wanted  to  go  out,  and  it  was  all  right.  The 
Trent  is  full." 

"  And  did  you  go  to  Barton?  "  she  asked. 

"  No ;   we  had  tea  in  Clifton." 

"  Did  you !    That  would  be  nice." 

"It  was!  The  j oiliest  old  woman!  She  gave  us  sev- 
eral pom-pom  dahlias,  as  pretty  as  you  like." 

Miriam  bowed  her  head  and  brooded.  He  was  quite  un- 
conscious of  concealing  anything  from  her. 

"  What  made  her  give  them  you?  "  she  asked. 

He  laughed. 

"  Because  she  liked  us  —  because  we  were  j  oily,  I  should 
think." 

Miriam  put  her  finger  in  her  mouth. 

"  Were  you  late  home  ?  "  she  asked. 

At  last  he  resented  her  tone. 

66 1  caught  the  seven-thirty." 

"Ha!" 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  and  he  was  angry. 

"  And  how  is  Clara?  "  asked  Miriam. 

"  Quite  all  right,  I  think." 

"  That 's  good !  "  she  said,  with  a  tinge  of  irony.  "  By 
the  way,  what  of  her  husband?  One  never  hears  anything 
of  him." 

"  He  's  got  some  other  woman,  and  is  also  quite  all 
right,"  he  replied.  "  At  least,  so  I  think." 

"  I  see  —  you  don't  know  for  certain.  Don't  you  think 
a  position  like  that  is  hard  on  a  woman?  " 

"Rottenly  hard!" 

"  It 's  so  unjust !  "  said  Miriam.  "  The  man  does  as  he 
likes  —  " 

"  Then  let  the  woman  also,"  he  said. 

"  How  can  she?    And  if  she  does,  look  at  her  position !  " 

"What  of  it?" 

"  Why,  it 's  impossible !  You  don't  understand  what 
a  woman  forfeits  — 

"  No,  I  don't.     But  if  a  woman  's  got  nothing  but  her 


Passion  391 

fair  fame  to  feed  on,  why,  it 's  thin  tack,  and  a  donkey 
would  die  of  it !  " 

So  she  understood  his  moral  attitude,  at  least,  and  she 
knew  he  would  act  accordingly. 

She  never  asked  him  anything  direct,  but  she  got  to 
know  enough. 

Another  day,  when  he  saw  Miriam,  the  conversation 
turned  to  marriage,  then  to  Clara's  marriage  with  Dawes. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  she  never  knew  the  fearful  im- 
portance of  marriage.  She  thought  it  was  all  in  the  day's 
march  —  it  would  have  to  come  —  and  Dawes  —  well,  a 
good  many  women  would  have  given  their  souls  to  get 
him;  so  why  not  him?  Then  she  developed  into  the 
femme  incomprise,  and  treated  him  badly,  I  '11  bet  my 
boots." 

"  And  she  left  him  because  he  did  n't  understand 
her?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  suppose  she  had  to.  It  is  n't  alto- 
gether a  question  of  understanding ;  it 's  a  question  of 
living.  With  him,  she  was  only  half  alive;  the  rest  was 
dormant,  deadened.  And  the  dormant  woman  was  the 
femme  incomprise,  and  she  had  to  be  awakened." 

"  And  what  about  him?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  rather  think  he  loves  her  as  much 
as  he  can,  but  he  's  a  fool." 

"  It  was  something  like  your  mother  and  father,"  said 
Miriam. 

"  Yes ;  but  my  mother,  I  believe,  got  real  joy  and  satis- 
faction out  of  my  father  at  first.  I  believe  she  had  a 
passion  for  him ;  that 's  why  she  stayed  with  him.  After 
all,  they  were  bound  to  each  other." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miriam. 

"  That 's  what  one  must  have,  I  think,"  he  continued  — 
"  the  real,  real  flame  of  feeling  through  another  person 
—  once,  only  once,  if  it  only  lasts  three  months.  See, 
my  mother  looks  as  if  she  'd  had  everything  that  was 
necessary  for  her  living  and  developing.  There  's  not  a 
tiny  bit  of  a  feeling  of  sterility  about  her." 


392  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  No,"  said  Miriam. 

"  And  with  my  father,  at  first,  I  'm  sure  she  had  the  real 
thing.  She  knows;  she  has  been  there.  You  can  feel  it 
about  her,  and  about  him,  and  about  hundreds  of  people 
you  meet  every  day;  and,  once  it  has  happened  to  you, 
you  can  go  on  with  anything  and  ripen." 

"What  has  happened,  exactly?  "  asked  Miriam. 

"  It 's  so  hard  to  say,  but  the  something  big  and  in- 
tense that  changes  you  when  you  really  come  together 
with  somebody  else.  It  almost  seems  to  fertilize  your  soul 
and  make  it  that  you  can  go  on  and  mature." 

"  And  you  think  your  mother  had  it  with  your  father?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  at  the  bottom  she  feels  grateful  to  him  for 
giving  it  her,  even  now,  though  they  are  miles  apart." 

"  And  you  think  Clara  never  had  it  ?  " 

"  I  'm  sure." 

Miriam  pondered  this.  She  saw  what  he  was  seeking  — 
a  sort  of  baptism  of  fire  in  passion,  it  seemed  to  her. 
She  realized  that  he  would  never  be  satisfied  till  he  had 
it.  Perhaps  it  was  essential  to  him,  as  to  some  men,  to 
sow  wild  oats;  and  afterwards,  when  he  was  satisfied,  he 
would  not  rage  with  restlessness  any  more,  but  could  settle 
down  and  give  her  his  life  into  her  hands.  Well,  then,  if 
he  must  go,  let  him  go  and  have  his  fill  —  something  big 
and  intense,  he  called  it.  At  any  rate,  when  he  had  got  it, 
he  would  not  want  it  —  that  he  said  himself ;  he  would 
want  the  other  thing  that  she  could  give  him.  He  would 
want  to  be  owned,  so  that  he  could  work.  It  seemed  to 
her  a  bitter  thing  that  he  must  go,  but  she  could  let  him 
go  into  an  inn  for  a  glass  of  whisky,  so  she  could  let  him 
go  to  Clara,  so  long  as  it  was  something  that  would 
satisfy  a  need  in  him,  and  leave  him  free  for  herself  to 
possess. 

"  Have  you  told  your  mother  about  Clara  ?  "  she  asked. 

She  knew  this  would  be  a  test  of  the  seriousness  of  his 
feeling  for  the  other  woman;  she  knew  he  was  going  to 
Clara  for  something  vital,  not  as  a  man  goes  for  pleasure 
to  a  prostitute,  if  he  told  his  mother. 


Passion  393 

66  Yes,"  he  said,  "  and  she  is  coming  to  tea  on  Sunday." 

"To  your  house?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  want  mater  to  see  her." 

"  Ah !  " 

There  was  a  silence.  Things  had  gone  quicker  than  she 
thought.  She  felt  a  sudden  bitterness  that  he  could  leave 
her  so  soon  and  so  entirely.  And  was  Clara  to  be  ac- 
cepted by  his  people,  who  had  been  so  hostile  to  herself? 

"  I  may  call  in  as  I  go  to  chapel,"  she  said.  "  It  is  a 
long  time  since  I  saw  Clara." 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  astonished,  and  unconsciously 
angry. 

On  the  Sunday  afternoon  he  went  to  Keston  to  meet 
Clara  at  the  station.  As  he  stood  on  the  platform  he  was 
trying  to  examine  in  himself  if  he  had  a  premonition. 

"  Do  I  feel  as  if  she  'd  come?  "  he  said  to  himself,  and 
he  tried  to  find  out.  His  heart  felt  queer  and  contracted. 
That  seemed  like  foreboding.  Then  he  had  a  foreboding 
she  would  not  come!  Then  she  would  not  come,  and  in- 
stead of  taking  her  over  the  fields  home,  as  he  had 
imagined,  he  would  have  to  go  alone.  The  train  was  late ; 
the  afternoon  would  be  wasted,  and  the  evening.  He  hated 
her  for  not  coming.  Why  had  she  promised,  then, 
if  she  could  not  keep  her  promise?  Perhaps  she  had 
missed  her  train  —  he  himself  was  always  missing  trains 
—  but  that  was  no  reason  why  she  should  miss  thb  par- 
ticular one.  He  was  angry  with  her;  he  was  furious. 

Suddenly  he  saw  the  train  crawling,  sneaking  round  the 
corner.  Here,  then,  was  the  train,  but  of  course  she  had 
not  come.  The  green  engine  hissed  along  the  platform,  the 
row  of  brown  carriages  drew  up,  several  doors  opened. 
No ;  she  had  not  come !  No  !  Yes ;  ah,  there  she  was  ! 
She  had  a  big  black  hat  on !  He  was  at  her  side  in  a 
moment. 

"  I  thought  you  were  n't  coming,"  he  said. 

She  was  laughing  rather  breathlessly  as  she  put  out  her 
hand  to  him;  their  eyes  met.  He  took  her  quickly  along 
the  platform,  talking  at  a  great  rate  to  hide  his  feeling. 


394  Sons  and  Lovers 

She  looked  beautiful.  In  her  hat  were  large  silk  roses, 
coloured  like  tarnished  gold.  Her  costume  of  dark  cloth 
fitted  so  beautifully  over  her  breast  and  shoulders.  His 
pride  went  up  as  he  walked  with  her.  He  felt  the  station 
people,  who  knew  him,  eyed  her  with  awe  and  admiration. 

"  I  was  sure  you  were  n't  coming,"  he  laughed  shakily. 

She  laughed  in  answer,  almost  with  a  little  cry. 

"  And  I  wondered,  when  I  was  in  the  train,  whatever  I 
should  do  if  you  were  n't  there !  "  she  said. 

He  caught  her  hand  impulsively,  and  they  went  along 
the  narrow  twitchel.  They  took  the  road  into  Nuttall  and 
over  the  Reckoning  House  Farm.  It  was  a  blue,  mild  day. 
Everywhere  the  brown  leaves  lay  scattered ;  many  scarlet 
hips  stood  upon  the  hedge  beside  the  wood.  He  gathered 
a  few  for  her  to  wear. 

"  Though,  really,"  he  said,  as  he  fitted  them  into  the 
breast  of  her  coat,  "  you  ought  to  object  to  my  getting 
them,  because  of  the  birds.  But  they  don't  care  much 
for  rose-hips  in  this  part,  where  they  can  get  plenty  of 
stuff.  You  often  find  the  berries  going  rotten  in  spring- 
time." 

So  he  chattered,  scarcely  aware  of  what  he  said,  only 
knowing  he  was  putting  berries  in  the  bosom  of  her  coat, 
while  she  stood  patiently  for  him.  And  she  watched 
his  quick  hands,  so  full  of  life,  and  it  seemed  to  her  she 
had  never  seen  anything  before.  Till  now,  everything  had 
been  indistinct. 

They  came  near  to  the  colliery.  It  stood  quite  still  and 
black  among  the  corn-fields,  its  immense  heap  of  slag  seen 
rising  almost  from  the  oats. 

"  What  a  pity  there  is  a  coal-pit  here  where  it  is  so 
pretty !  "  said  Clara. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  he  answered.  "  You  see,  I  am  so 
used  to  it  I  should  miss  it.  No ;  and  I  like  the  pits  here 
and  there.  I  like  the  rows  of  trucks,  and  the  headstocks, 
and  the  steam  in  the  daytime,  and  the  lights  at  night. 
When  I  was  a  boy,  I  always  thought  a  pillar  of  cloud  by 
day  and  a  pillar  of  fire  by  night  was  a  pit,  with  its  steam, 


Passion  395 

and  its  lights,  and  the  burning  bank,  —  and  I  thought  the 
Lord  was  always  at  the  pit-top." 

As  they  drew  near  home  she  walked  in  silence,  and 
seemed  to  hang  back.  He  pressed  her  fingers  in  his  own. 
She  flushed,  but  gave  no  response. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  come  home?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  want  to  come,"  she  replied. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  her  position  in  his  home 
would  be  rather  a  peculiar  and  difficult  one.  To  him  it 
seemed  just  as  if  one  of  his  men  friends  were  going  to 
be  introduced  to  his  mother,  only  nicer. 

The  Morels  lived  in  a  house  in  an  ugly  street  that  ran 
down  a  steep  hill.  The  street  itself  was  hideous.  The 
house  was  rather  superior  to  most.  It  was  old,  grimy, 
with  a  big  bay  window,  and  it  was  semi-detached ;  but  it 
looked  gloomy.  Then  Paul  opened  the  door  to  the  garden, 
and  all  was  different.  The  sunny  afternoon  was  there, 
like  another  land.  By  the  path  grew  tansy  and  little 
trees.  In  front  of  the  window  was  a  plot  of  sunny  grass4 
with  old  lilacs  round  it.  And  away  went  the  garden, 
with  heaps  of  dishevelled  chrysanthemums  in  the  sun^ 
shine,  down  to  the  sycamore-tree,  and  the  field,  and  be- 
yond one  looked  over  a  few  red-roofed  cottages  to  the 
hills  with  all  the  glow  of  the  autumn  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Morel  sat  in  her  rocking-chair,  wearing  her  black 
silk  blouse.  Her  grey-brown  hair  was  taken  smooth  back 
from  her  brow  and  her  high  temples ;  her  face  was  rather 
pale.  Clara,  suffering,  followed  Paul  into  the  kitchen. 
Mrs.  Morel  rose.  Clara  thought  her  a  lady,  even  rather 
stiff.  The  young  woman  was  very  nervous.  She  had 
almost  a  wistful  look,  almost  resigned. 

"  Mother  —  Clara,"  said  Paul. 

Mrs.  Morel  held  out  her  hand  and  smiled. 

"  He  has  told  me  a  good  deal  about  you,"  she  said. 

The  blood  flamed  in  Clara's  cheek. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  coming,"  she  faltered. 

"  I  was  pleased  when  he  said  he  would  bring  you,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Morel. 


396  Sons  and  Lovers 

Paul,  watching,  felt  his  heart  contract  with  pain.  His 
mother  looked  so  small,  and  sallow,  and  done-for  beside 
the  luxuriant  Clara. 

"  It 's  such  a  pretty  day,  mother !  "  he  said.  "  And  we 
saw  a  jay." 

His  mother  looked  at  him ;  he  had  turned  to  her.  She 
thought  what  a  man  he  seemed,  in  his  dark,  well-made 
clothes.  He  was  pale  and  detached-looking;  it  would  be 
hard  for  any  woman  to  keep  him.  Her  heart  glowed ;  then 
she  was  sorry  for  Clara. 

"  Perhaps  you  '11  leave  your  things  in  the  parlour,"  said 
Mrs.  Morel  nicely  to  the  young  woman. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  she  replied. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Paul,  and  he  led  the  way  into  the  little 
front-room,  with  its  old  piano,  its  mahogany  furniture,  its 
yellowing  marble  mantelpiece.  A  fire  was  burning;  the 
place  was  littered  with  books  and  drawing-boards.  "  I 
leave  my  things  lying  about,"  he  said.  "  It 's  so  much 
easier." 

She  loved  his  artist's  paraphernalia,  and  the  books,  and 
the  photos  of  people.  Soon  he  was  telling  her:  this  was 
William,  this  was  William's  young  lady  in  the  evening 
dress,  this  was  Annie  and  her  husband,  this  was  Arthur 
and  his  wife  and  the  baby.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  being 
taken  into  the  family.  He  showed  her  photos,  books, 
sketches,  and  they  talked  a  little  while.  Then  they  re- 
turned to  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Morel  put  aside  her  book. 
Clara  wore  a  blouse  of  fine  silk  chiffon,  with  narrow  black- 
and-white  stripes ;  her  hair  was  done  simply,  coiled  on  top 
of  her  head.  She  looked  rather  stately  and  reserved. 

"  You  have  gone  to  live  down  Sneinton  Boulevard  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Morel.     "  When  I  was  a  girl  —  girl,  I  say !  — 
when  I  was  a  young  woman  we  lived  in  Minerva  Terrace." 

"  Oh,  did  you !  "  said  Clara.  "  I  have  a  friend  in  Num- 
ber 6." 

And  the  conversation  had  started.  They  talked  Not- 
tingham and  Nottingham  people;  it  interested  them  both. 
Clara  was  still  rather  nervous ;  Mrs.  Morel  was  still  some- 


Passion  397 

what  on  her  dignity.  She  clipped  her  language  very  clear 
and  precise.  But  they  were  going  to  get  on  well  to- 
gether, Paul  saw. 

Mrs.  Morel  measured  herself  against  the  younger 
woman,  and  found  herself  easily  stronger.  Clara  was 
deferential.  She  knew  Paul's  surprising  regard  for  his 
mother,  and  she  had  dreaded  the  meeting,  expecting  some- 
one rather  hard  and  cold.  She  was  surprised  to  find  this 
little  interested  woman  chatting  with  such  readiness ;  and 
then  she  felt,  as  she  felt  with  Paul,  that  she  would  not 
care  to  stand  in  Mrs.  Morel's  way.  There  was  something 
so  hard  and  certain  in  his  mother,  as  if  she  never  had  a 
misgiving  in  her  life. 

Presently  Morel  came  down,  ruffled  and  yawning,  from 
his  afternoon  sleep.  He  scratched  his  grizzled  head,  he 
podded  in  his  stocking  feet,  his  waistcoat  hung  open  over 
his  shirt.  He  seemed  incongruous. 

"  This  is  Mrs.  Dawes,  father,"  said  Paul. 

Then  Morel  pulled  himself  together.  Clara  saw  Paul's 
manner  of  bowing  and  shaking  hands. 

66  Oh,  indeed !  "  exclaimed  Morel.  "  I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you  —  I  am,  I  assure  you.  But  don't  disturb  yourself. 
No,  no;  make  yourself  quite  comfortable,  and  be  very 
welcome." 

Clara  was  astonished  at  this  flood  of  hospitality  from 
the  old  collier.  He  was  so  courteous,  so  gallant!  She 
thought  him  most  delightful. 

"  And  may  you  have  come  far?  "  he  asked. 

"  Only  from  Nottingham,"  she  said. 

"  From  Nottingham !  Then  you  have  had  a  beautiful 
day  for  your  journey." 

Then  he  strayed  into  the  scullery  to  wash  his  hands 
and  face,  and  from  force  of  habit  came  on  to  the  hearth 
with  the  towel  to  dry  himself. 

At  tea  Clara  felt  the  refinement  and  sang-froid  of  the 
household.  Mrs.  Morel  was  perfectly  at  her  ease.  The 
pouring  out  the  tea  and  attending  to  the  people  went  on 
unconsciously,  without  interrupting  her  in  her  talk.  There 


398  Sons  and  Levers 

was  a  lot  of  room  at  the  oval  table;  the  china  of  dark 
blue  willow-pattern  looked  pretty  on  the  glossy  cloth. 
There  was  a  little  bowl  of  small,  yellow  chrysanthemums. 
Clara  felt  she  completed  the  circle,  and  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  her.  But  she  was  rather  afraid  of  the  self-possession 
of  the  Morels,  father  and  all.  She  took  their  tone ;  there 
was  a  feeling  of  balance.  It  was  a  cool,  clear  atmosphere, 
where  everyone  was  himself,  and  in  harmony.  Clara  en- 
joyed it,  but  there  was  a  fear  deep  at  the  bottom  of 
her. 

Paul  cleared  the  table  whilst  his  mother  and  Clara 
talked.  Clara  was  conscious  of  his  quick,  vigorous  body 
as  it  came  and  went,  seeming  blown  quickly  by  a  wind  at 
its  work.  It  was  almost  like  the  hither  and  thither  of  a 
leaf  that  comes  unexpected.  Most  of  herself  went  with 
him.  By  the  way  she  leaned  forward,  as  if  listening,  Mrs. 
Morel  could  see  she  was  possessed  elsewhere  as  she  talked, 
and  again  the  elder  woman  was  sorry  for  her. 

Having  finished,  he  strolled  down  the  garden,  leaving  the 
two  women  to  talk.  It  was  a  hazy,  sunny  afternoon,  mild 
and  soft.  Clara  glanced  through  the  window  after  him 
as  he  loitered  among  the  chrysanthemums.  She  felt  as  if 
something  almost  tangible  fastened  her  to  him;  yet  he 
seemed  so  easy  in  his  graceful,  indolent  movement,  so  de- 
tached as  he  tied  up  the  too-heavy  flower-branches  to  their 
stakes,  that  she  wanted  to  shriek  in  her  helplessness. 

Mrs.  Morel  rose. 

"  You  will  let  me  help  you  wash  up,"  said  Clara. 

"  Eh,  there  are  so  few,  it  will  only  take  me  a  minute," 
said  the  other. 

Clara,  however,  dried  the  tea-things,  and  was  glad  to 
be  on  such  good  terms  with  his  mother;  but  it  was  tor- 
ture not  to  be  able  to  follow  him  down  the  garden.  At 
last  she  allowed  herself  to  go;  she  felt  as  if  a  rope  were 
taken  off  her  ankle. 

The  afternoon  was  golden  over  the  hills  of  Derbyshire. 
He  stood  across  in  the  other  garden,  beside  a  bush  of  pale 
Michaelmas  daisies,  watching  the  last  bees  crawl  into  the 


Passion  399 

hive.  Hearing  her  coming,  he  turned  to  her  with  an  easy 
motion,  saying: 

"  It 's  the  end  of  the  run  with  these  chaps." 

Clara  stood  near  him.  Over  the  low  red  wall  in  front 
was  the  country  and  the  far-off  hills,  all  golden  dim. 

At  that  moment  Miriam  was  entering  through  the 
garden-door.  She  saw  Clara  go  up  to  him,  saw  him  turn, 
and  saw  them  come  to  rest  together.  Something  in  their 
perfect  isolation  together  made  her  know  that  it  was 
accomplished  between  them,  that  they  were,  as  she  put  it, 
married.  She  walked  very  slowly  down  the  cinder-track 
of  the  long  garden. 

Clara  had  pulled  a  button  from  a  hollyhock  spire,  and 
was  breaking  it  to  get  the  seeds.  Above  her  bowed  head 
the  pink  flowers  stared,  as  if  defending  her.  The  last  bees 
were  falling  down  to  the  hive. 

"  Count  your  money,"  laughed  Paul,  as  she  broke  the 
flat  seeds  one  by  one  from  the  roll  of  coin.  She  looked  at 
him. 

"  I  'm  well  off,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"How  much?  Pf!"  He  snapped  his  fingers.  "  Can  I 
turn  them  into  gold?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  not,"  she  laughed. 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  laughing.  At  that 
moment  they  became  aware  of  Miriam.  There  was  a  click, 
and  everything  had  altered. 

"  Hello,  Miriam !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  You  said  you  'd 
come !  " 

"Yes.     Had  you  forgotten?" 

She  shook  hands  with  Clara,  saying: 

"  It  seems  strange  to  see  you  here." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  other ;  "  it  seems  strange  to  be 
here." 

There  was  a  hesitation. 

"  It  is  pretty,  is  n't  it?  "  said  Miriam. 

"  I  like  it  very  much,"  replied  Clara. 

Then  Miriam  realized  that  Clara  was  accepted  as  she 
had  never  been. 


400  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Have  you  come  down  alone?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  Yes ;  I  went  to  Agatha's  to  tea.  We  are  going  to 
chapel.  I  only  called  in  for  a  moment  to  see  Clara." 

"  You  should  have  come  in  here  to  tea,"  he  said. 

Miriam  laughed  shortly,  and  Clara  turned  impatiently 
aside. 

"  Do  you  like  the  chrysanthemums  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes ;   they  are  very  fine,"  replied  Miriam. 

"  Which  sort  do  you  like  best?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know.    The  bronze,  I  think." 

"  I  don't  think  you  've  seen  all  the  sorts.  Come  and 
look.  Come  and  see  which  are  your  favourites,  Clara." 

He  led  the  two  women  back  to  his  own  garden,  where 
the  towzled  bushes  of  flowers  of  all  colours  stood  raggedly 
along  the  path  down  to  the  field.  The  situation  did  not 
embarrass  him,  to  his  knowledge. 

"  Look,  Miriam ;  these  are  the  white  ones  that  came 
from  your  garden.  They  are  n't  so  fine  here,  are  they?  " 

"  No,"  said  Miriam. 

"  But  they  're  harder.  You  're  so  sheltered ;  things 
grow  big  and  tender,  and  then  die.  These  little  yellow 
ones  I  like.  Will  you  have  some?  " 

While  they  were  out  there  the  bells  began  to  ring  in 
the  church,  sounding  loud  across  the  town  and  the  field. 
Miriam  looked  at  the  tower,  proud  among  the  clustering 
roofs,  and  remembered  the  sketches  he  had  brought  her. 
It  had  been  different  then,  but  he  had  not  left  her  even 
yet.  She  asked  him  for  a  book  to  read.  He  ran  indoors. 

"What!  is  that  Miriam?"  asked  his  mother  coldly. 

"  Yes ;   she  said  she  'd  call  and  see  Clara." 

"You  told  her,  then?"  came  the  sarcastic  answer. 

"Yes;    why   shouldn't  I?" 

"  There 's  certainly  no  reason  why  you  should  n't," 
said  Mrs.  Morel,  and  she  returned  to  her  book.  He 
winced  from  his  mother's  irony,  frowned  irritably,  think- 
ing: "  Why  can't  I  do  as  I  like?  " 

"You've  not  seen  Mrs.  Morel  before?"  Miriam  was 
saying  to  Clara. 


Passion  401 

"  No ;    but  she  's  so  nice  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Miriam,  dropping  her  head ;  "  in  some 
ways  she  's  very  fine." 

"  I  should  think  so." 

"  Had  Paul  told  you  much  about  her  ?  " 

"  He  had  talked  a  good  deal." 

"Ha!" 

There  was  silence  until  he  returned  with  the  book. 

"  When  will  you  want  it  back?  "  Miriam  asked. 

"  When  you  like,"  he  answered. 

Clara  turned  to  go  indoors,  whilst  he  accompanied 
Miriam  to  the  gate. 

"  When  will  you  come  up  to  Willey  Farm  ?  "  the  latter 
asked. 

"  I  could  n't  say,"  replied  Clara. 

"  Mother  asked  me  to  say  she  'd  be  pleased  to  see  you 
any  time,  if  you  cared  to  come." 

"  Thank  you ;    I  should  like  to,  but  I  can't  say  when." 

"  Oh,  very  well !  "  exclaimed  Miriam  rather  bitterly, 
turning  away. 

She  went  down  the  path  with  her  mouth  to  the  flowers 
he  had  given  her. 

"  You  're  sure  you  won't  come  in?  "  he  said. 

"No,   thanks." 

"  We  are  going  to  chapel." 

"  Ha,  I  shall  see  you  then !  "     Miriam  was  very  bitter. 

"  Yes." 

They  parted.  He  felt  guilty  towards  her.  She  was 
bitter,  and  she  scorned  him.  He  still  belonged  to  herself, 
she  believed;  yet  he  could  have  Clara,  take  her  home, 
sit  with  her  next  his  mother  in  chapel,  give  her  the  same 
hymn-book  he  had  given  herself  years  before.  She  heard 
him  running  quickly  indoors. 

But  he  did  not  go  straight  in.  Halting  on  the  plot 
of  grass,  he  heard  his  mother's  voice,  then  Clara's  answer : 

"  What  I  hate  is  the  bloodhound  quality  in  Miriam." 

"  Yes,"  said  his  mother  quickly,  "  yes ;  does  n't  it  make 
you  hate  her,  now !  " 


402  Sons  and  Lovers 

His  heart  went  hot,  and  he  was  angry  with  them  for 
talking  about  the  girl.  What  right  had  they  to  say 
that?  Something  in  the  speech  itself  stung  him  into  a 
flame  of  hate  against  Miriam.  Then  his  own  heart  re- 
belled furiously  at  Clara's  taking  the  liberty  of  speak- 
ing so  about  Miriam.  After  all,  the  girl  was  the  better 
woman  of  the  two,  he  thought,  if  it  came  to  goodness. 
He  went  indoors.  His  mother  looked  excited.  She  was 
beating  with  her  hand  rhythmically  on  the  sofa-arm,  as 
women  do  who  are  wearing  out.  He  could  never  bear 
to  see  the  movement.  There  was  a  silence ;  then  he  began 
to  talk. 

In  chapel  Miriam  saw  him  find  the  place  in  the  hymn- 
book  for  Clara,  in  exactly  the  same  way  as  he  used  for 
herself.  And  during  the  sermon  he  could  see  the  girl 
across  the  chapel,  her  hat  throwing  a  dark  shadow  over 
her  face.  What  did  she  think,  seeing  Clara  with  him? 
He  did  not  stop  to  consider.  He  felt  himself  cruel 
towards  Miriam. 

After  chapel  he  went  over  Pentrich  with  Clara.  It 
was  a  dark  autumn  night.  They  had  said  good-bye  to 
Miriam,  and  his  heart  had  smitten  him  as  he  left  the 
girl  alone.  "  But  it  serves  her  right,"  he  said  inside 
himself,  and  it  almost  gave  him  pleasure  to  go  off  under 
her  eyes  with  this  other  handsome  woman. 

There  was  a  scent  of  damp  leaves  in  the  darkness. 
Clara's  hand  lay  warm  and  inert  in  his  own  as  they  walked. 
He  was  full  of  conflict.  The  battle  that  raged  inside 
him  made  him  feel  desperate. 

Up  Pentrich  Hill  Clara  leaned  against  him  as  he  went. 
He  slid  his  arm  round  her  waist.  Feeling  the  strong 
motion  of  her  body  under  his  arm  as  she  walked,  the 
tightness  in  his  chest  because  of  Miriam  relaxed,  and  the 
hot  blood  bathed  him.  He  held  her  closer  and  closer. 

Then :  "  You  still  keep  on  with  Miriam,"  she  said 
quietly. 

"  Only  talk.  There  never  was  a  great  deal  more  than 
talk  between  us,"  he  said  bitterly. 


Passion  403 

"  Your  mother  does  n't  care  for  her,"  said  Clara. 

"  No,  or  I  might  have  married  her.  But  it 's  all  up, 
really!" 

Suddenly  his  voice  went  passionate  with  hate. 

"  If  I  was  with  her  now,  we  should  be  jawing  about 
the  '  Christian  Mystery,'  or  some  such  tack.  Thank 
God,  I'm  not!" 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  time. 

"But  you  can't  really  give  her  up,"  said  Clara. 

"  I  don't  give  her  up,  because  there 's  nothing  to 
give,"  he  said. 

"  There  is  for  her." 

"  I  don't  know  why  she  and  I  should  n't  be  friends 
as  long  as  we  live,"  he  said.  "  But  it  '11  only  be  friends." 

Clara  drew  away  from  him,  leaning  away  from  contact 
with  him. 

"  What  are  you  drawing  away  for?  "  he  asked. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  drew  farther  from  him. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  walk  alone  ?  "  he  asked. 

Still  there  was  no  answer.  She  walked  resentfully, 
hanging  her  head. 

"  Because  I  said  I  would  be  friends  with  Miriam ! "  he 
exclaimed. 

She  would  not  answer  him  anything. 

"  I  tell  you  it 's  only  words  that  go  between  us,"  he 
persisted,  trying  to  take  her  again. 

She  resisted.  Suddenly  he  strode  across  in  front  of 
her,  barring  her  way. 

"  Damn  it !  "  he  said.     "  What  do  you  want  now?  " 

"  You  'd  better  run   after  Miriam,"   mocked   Clara. 

The  blood  flamed  up  in  him.  He  stood  showing-  his 
teeth.  She  drooped  sulkily.  The  lane  was  dark,  quite 
lonely.  He  suddenly  caught  her  in  his  arms,  stretched 
forward,  and  put  his  mouth  on  her  face  in  a  kiss  of  rage. 
She  turned  frantically  to  avoid  him.  He  held  her  fast. 
Hard  and  relentless  his  mouth  came  for  her.  Her  breasts 
hurt  against  the  wall  of  his  chest.  Helpless,  she  went 
loose  in  his  arms,  and  he  kissed  her,  and  kissed  her.  - 


404  Sons  and  Lovers 

He  heard  people  coming  down  the  hill. 

"  Stand  up !  stand  up !  "  he  said  thickly,  gripping  her 
arm  till  it  hurt.  If  he  had  let  go,  she  would  have  sunk 
to  the  ground. 

She  sighed  and  walked  dizzily  beside  him.  They  went 
on  in  silence. 

"  We  will  go  over  the  fields,"  he  said ;  and  then  she 
woke  up. 

But  she  let  herself  be  helped  over  the  stile,  and  she 
walked  in  silence  with  him  over  the  first  dark  field.  It 
was  the  way  to  Nottingham  and  to  the  station,  she  knew. 
He  seemed  to  be  looking  about.  They  came  out  on  a 
bare  hill-top  where  stood  the  dark  figure  of  the  ruined 
windmill.  There  he  halted.  They  stood  together  high 
up  in  the  darkness,  looking  at  the  lights  scattered  on 
the  night  before  them,  handfuls  of  glittering  points,  villa- 
ges lying  high  and  low  on  the  dark,  here  and  there. 

"  Like  treading  among  the  stars,"  he  said,  with  a  quaky 
laugh. 

Then  he  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  held  her  fast.  She 
moved  aside  her  mouth  to  ask,  dogged  and  low : 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"  It  does  n't  matter,"  he  pleaded  thickly. 

"  Yes,  it  does  —  yes  !     I  must  go !  " 

"  It 's  early  yet,"  he  said. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  insisted. 

All  round  lay  the  black  night,  speckled  and  spangled 
with  lights. 

"  I  don't  know." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  chest,  feeling  for  his  watch. 
He  felt  his  joints  fuse  into  fire.  She  groped  in  his  waist- 
coat pocket,  while  he  stood  panting.  In  the  darkness 
she  could  see  the  round,  pale  face  of  the  watch,  but  not 
the  figures.  She  stooped  over  it.  He  was  panting  till 
he  could  take  her  in  his  arms  again. 

"  I  can't  see,"  she  said. 

"  Then  don't  bother." 

"  Yes ;   I  'm  going !  "  she  said,  turning  away. 


Passion  405 

"Wait!  I'll  look!"  But  he  could  not  see.  "I'll 
strike  a  match." 

He  secretly  hoped  it  was  too  late  to  catch  the  train. 
She  saw  the  glowing  lantern  of  his  hands  as  he  cradled 
the  light;  then  his  face  lit  up,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
watch.  Instantly  all  was  dark  again.  All  was  black 
before  her  eyes ;  only  a  glowing  match  was  red  near  her 
feet.  Where  was  he? 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked,  afraid. 

"  You  can't  do  it,"  his  voice  answered  out  of  the 
darkness. 

There  was  a  pause.  She  felt  in  his  power.  She  had 
heard  the  ring  in  his  voice.  It  frightened  her. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  asked,  quiet,  definite,  hope- 
less. 

"  Two  minutes  to  nine,"  he  replied,  telling  the  truth 
with  a  struggle. 

"  And  can  I  get  from  here  to  the  station  in  fourteen 
minutes?  " 

"  No.     At  any  rate  —  " 

She  could  distinguish  his  dark  form  again  a  yard  or 
so  away.  She  wanted  to  escape. 

"  But  can't  I  do  it?  "  she  pleaded. 

"  If  you  hurry,"  he  said  brusquely.  "  But  you  could 
easily  walk  it,  Clara ;  it 's  only  seven  miles  to  the  tram. 
I  '11  come  with  you." 

"  No ;    I  want  to  catch  the  train." 

"But  why?" 

"I  do  —  I  want  to  catch  the  train." 

Suddenly  his  voice  altered. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  dry  and  hard.  "  Come  along, 
then." 

And  he  plunged  ahead  into  the  darkness.  She  ran 
after  him,  wanting  to  cry.  Now  he  was  hard  and  cruel 
to  her.  She  ran  over  the  rough,  dark  fields  behind  him, 
out  of  breath,  ready  to  drop.  But  the  double  row  of 
lights  at  the  station  drew  nearer.  Suddenly: 

"  There  she  is !  "  he  cried,  breaking  into  a  run. 


406  Sons  and  Lorers 

There  was  a  faint  rattling  noise.  Away  to  the  right 
the  train,  like  a  luminous  caterpillar,  was  threading  across 
the  night.  The  rattling  ceased. 

"  She  's  over  the  viaduct.     You  '11  just  do  it." 

Clara  ran,  quite  out  of  breath,  and  fell  at  last  into 
the  train.  The  whistle  blew.  He  was  gone.  Gone! 
—  and  she  was  in  a  carriage  full  of  people.  She  felt 
the  cruelty  of  it. 

He  turned  round  and  plunged  home.  Before  he  knew 
where  he  was  he  was  in  the  kitchen  at  home.  He  was 
very  pale.  His  eyes  were  dark  and  dangerous-looking,  as 
if  he  were  drunk.  His  mother  looked  at  him. 

"  Well,  I  must  say  your  boots  are  in  a  nice  state !  " 
she  said. 

He  looked  at  his  feet.  Then  he  took  off  his  overcoat. 
His  mother  wondered  if  he  were  drunk. 

"  She  caught  the  train,  then?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  hope  her  feet  were  n't  so  filthy.  Where  on  earth 
you  dragged  her  I  don't  know !  " 

He  was  silent  and  motionless  for  some  time. 

"  Did  you  like  her?  "  he  asked  grudgingly  at  last. 

"  Yes,  I  liked  her.  But  you  '11  tire  of  her,  my  son ; 
you  know  you  wilL" 

He  did  not  answer.  She  noticed  how  he  laboured  in 
his  breathing. 

"  Have  you  been  running?  "  she  asked. 

"  We  had  to  run  for  the  train." 

"  You  '11  go  and  knock  yourself  up.  You  'd  better 
drink  hot  milk." 

It  was  as  good  a  stimulant  as  he  could  have,  but  he 
refused  and  went  to  bed.  There  he  lay  face  down  on 
the  counterpane,  and  shed  tears  of  rage  and  pain.  There 
was  a  physical  pain  that  made  him  bite  his  lips  till  they 
bled,  and  the  chaos  inside  him  left  him  unable  to  think, 
almost  to  feeL 

"This  is  how  she  serves  me,  is  it?"  he  said  in  his 
heart,  over  and  over,  pressing  his  face  in  the  quilt.  And 


Passion  407 

he  hated  her.  Again  he  went  over  the  scene,  and  again 
he  hated  her. 

The  next  day  there  was  a  new  aloofness  about  him. 
Clara  was  very  gentle,  almost  loving.  But  he  treated 
her  distantly,  with  a  touch  of  contempt.  She  sighed, 
continuing  to  be  gentle.  He  came  round. 

One  evening  of  that  week  Sarah  Bernhardt  was  at  the 
Theatre  Royal  in  Nottingham,  giving  "  La  Dame  aux 
Camelias."  Paul  wanted  to  see  this  old  and  famous  ac- 
tress, and  he  asked  Clara  to  accompany  him.  He  told  his 
mother  to  leave  the  key  in  the  window  for  him. 

"  Shall  I  book  seats?  "  he  asked  of  Clara. 

"Yes.  And  put  on  an  evening  suit,  will  you?  I've 
never  seen  you  in  it." 

"  But,  good  Lord,  Clara !  Think  of  me  in  evening  suit 
at  the  theatre !  "  he  remonstrated. 

"  Would  you  rather  not  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  will  if  you  want  me  to ;   but  I  s'll  feel  a  fool." 

She  laughed  at  him. 

"  Then  feel  a  fool  for  my  sake^  once,  won't  you?  " 

The  request  made  his  blood  flush  up. 

"  I  suppose  I  s'll  have  to." 

"  What  are  you  taking  a  suit-case  for?  "  his  mother 
asked. 

He  blushed  furiously. 

"  Clara  asked  me,"  he  said. 

"  And  what  seats  are  you  going  in?  " 

"  Circle  —  three-and-six  each !  " 

"  Well,  I  'm  sure !  "  exclaimed  his  mother  sarcastically. 

"  It 's  only  once  in  the  bluest  of  blue  moons,"  he  said. 

He  dressed  at  Jordan's,  put  on  an  overcoat  and  a  cap, 
and  met  Clara  in  a  cafe.  She  was  with  one  of  her  suffra- 
gette friends.  She  wore  an  old  long  coat,  which  did  not 
suit  her,  and  had  a  little  wrap  over  her  head,  which  he 
hated.  The  three  went  to  the  theatre  together. 

Clara  took  off  her  coat  on  the  stairs,  and  he  discovered 
she  was  in  a  sort  of  semi-evening  dress,  that  left  her  arms 
and  neck  and  part  of  her  breast  bare.  Her  hair  was  done 


408  Sons  and  Lovers 

fashionably.  The  dress,  a  simple  thing  of  green  crape, 
suited  her.  She  looked  quite  grand,  he  thought.  He 
could  see  her  figure  inside  the  frock,  as  if  that  were 
wrapped  closely  round  her.  The  firmness  and  the  softness 
of  her  upright  body  could  almost  be  felt  as  he  looked  at 
her.  He  clenched  his  fists. 

And  he  was  to  sit  all  the  evening  beside  her  beautiful 
naked  arm,  watching  the  strong  throat  rise  from  the 
strong  chest,  watching  the  breasts  under  the  green  stuff, 
the  curve  of  her  limbs  in  the  tight  dress.  Something  in 
him  hated  her  again  for  submitting  him  to  this  torture 
of  nearness.  And  he  loved  her  as  she  balanced  her  head 
and  stared  straight  in  front  of  her,  pouting,  wistful,  im- 
mobile, as  if  she  yielded  herself  to  her  fate  because  it  was 
too  strong  for  her.  She  could  not  help  herself;  she  was 
in  the  grip  of  something  bigger  than  herself.  A  kind  of 
eternal  look  about  her,  as  if  she  were  a  wistful  sphinx, 
made  it  necessary  for  him  to  kiss  her.  He  dropped  his 
programme,  and  crouched  down  on  the  floor  to  get  it,  so 
that  he  could  kiss  her  hand  and  wrist.  Her  beauty  was  a 
torture  to  him.  She  sat  immobile.  Only,  when  the  lights 
went  down,  she  sank  a  little  against  him,  and  he  caressed 
her  hand  and  arm  with  his  fingers.  He  could  smell  her 
faint  perfume.  All  the  time  his  blood  kept  sweeping  up 
in  great  white-hot  waves  that  killed  his  consciousness 
momentarily. 

The  drama  continued.  He  saw  it  all  in  the  distance, 
going  on  somewhere;  he  did  not  know  where,  but  it 
seemed  far  away  inside  him.  He  was  Clara's  white  heavy 
arms,  her  throat,  her  moving  bosom.  That  seemed  to  be 
himself.  Then  away  somewhere  the  play  went  on,  and 
he  was  identified  with  that  also.  There  was  no  himself. 
The  grey  and  black  eyes  of  Clara,  her  bosom  coming  down 
on  him,  her  arm  that  he  held  gripped  between  his  hands, 
were  all  that  existed.  Then  he  felt  himself  small  and 
helpless,  her  towering  in  her  force  above  him. 

Only  the  intervals,  when  the  lights  came  up,  hurt  him 
expressibly.  He  wanted  to  run  anywhere,  so  long  as  it 


Passion  409 

would  be  dark  again.  In  a  maze,  he  wandered  out  for  a 
drink.  Then  the  lights  were  out,  and  the  strange,  insane 
reality  of  Clara  and  the  drama  took  hold  of  him  again. 

The  play  went  on.  But  he  was  obsessed  by  the  desire 
to  kiss  the  tiny  blue  vein  that  nestled  in  the  bend  of  her 
arm.  He  could  feel  it.  His  whole  life  seemed  suspended 
till  he  had  put  his  lips  there.  It  must  be  done.  And  the 
other  people!  At  last  he  bent  quickly  forward  and 
touched  it  with  his  lips.  His  moustache  brushed  the  sensi- 
tive flesh.  Clara  shivered,  drew  away  her  arm. 

When  all  was  over,  the  lights  up,  the  people  clapping, 
he  came  to  himself  and  looked  at  his  watch.  His  train 
was  gone. 

"  I  s'll  have  to  walk  home !  "  he  said. 

Clara  looked  at  him. 

"  Is  it  too  late?  "  she  asked. 

He  nodded.    Then  he  helped  her  on  with  her  coat. 

"  I  love  you !  You  look  beautiful  in  that  dress,"  he 
murmured  over  her  shoulder,  among  the  throng  of  bustling 
people. 

She  remained  quiet.  Together  they  went  out  of  the 
theatre.  He  saw  the  cabs  waiting,  the  people  passing. 
It  seemed  he  met  a  pair  of  brown  eyes  which  hated  him. 
But  he  did  not  know.  He  and  Clara  turned  away,  me- 
chanically taking  the  direction  to  the  station. 

The  train  had  gone.  He  would  have  to  walk  the  ten 
miles  home. 

"  It  does  n't  matter,"  he  said.     "  I  shall  enjoy  it." 

"  Won't  you,"  she  said,  flushing,  "  come  home  for  the 
night?  I  can  sleep  with  mother." 

He  looked  at  her.    Their  eyes  met. 

"  What  will  your  mother  say?  "  he  asked. 

"  She  won't  mind." 

"You 're  sure?" 

"Quite!" 

"Shall  I  come?" 

"  If  you  will." 

"  Very  well." 


410  Sons  and  Lovers 

And  they  turned  away.  At  the  first  stopping-place 
they  took  the  car.  The  wind  blew  fresh  in  their  faces. 
The  town  was  dark ;  the  tram  tipped  in  its  haste.  He 
sat  with  her  hand  fast  in  his. 

"  Will  your  mother  be  gone  to  bed?  "  he  asked. 

"  She  may  be.     I  hope  not." 

They  hurried  along  the  silent,  dark  little  street,  the  only 
people  out  of  doors.  Clara  quickly  entered  the  house.  He 
hesitated. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said. 

He  leaped  up  the  step  and  was  in  the  room.  Her 
mother  appeared  in  the  inner  doorway,  large  and  hostile. 

"  Who  have  you  got  there?  "  she  asked. 

"  It 's  Mr.  Morel ;  he  has  missed  his  train.  I  thought 
we  might  put  him  up  for  the  night,  and  save  him  a  ten- 
mile  walk." 

"  H'm !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Radford.  "  That 's  your  look- 
out !  If  you  've  invited  him,  he  's  very  welcome  as  far  as 
I  'm  concerned.  You  keep  the  house !  " 

"  If  you  don't  like  me,  I  '11  go  away  again,"  he  said. 

"  Nay,  nay,  you  need  n't !  Come  along  in !  I  dunno 
what  you  '11  think  of  the  supper  I  'd  got  her." 

It  was  a  little  dish  of  chip  potatoes  and  a  piece  of  bacon. 
The  table  was  roughly  laid  for  one. 

"  You  can  have  some  more  bacon,"  continued  Mrs. 
Radford.  "  More  chips  you  can't  have." 

"  It 's  a  shame  to  bother  you,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  be  apologetic !  It  does  n't  do  wi'  me ! 
You  treated  her  to  the  theatre,  did  n't  you?  "  There  was 
a  sarcasm  in  the  last  question. 

"  Well?  "  laughed  Paul  uncomfortably. 

"  Well,  and  what  's  an  inch  of  bacon !  Take  your  coat 
off." 

The  big,  straight-standing  woman  was  trying  to  esti- 
mate the  situation.  She  moved  about  the  cupboard. 
Clara  took  his  coat.  The  room  was  very  warm  and  cozy 
in  the  lamplight. 

"  My  sirs !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Radford ;  "  but  you  two  's 


Passion  411 

a  pair  of  bright  beauties,  I  must  say !  What 's  all  that 
get-up  for?  " 

"  I  believe  we  don't  know,"  he  said,  feeling  a  victim. 

"  There  is  n't  room  in  this  house  for  two  such  bobby- 
dazzlers,  if  you  fly  your  kites  that  high !  "  she  rallied 
them.  It  was  a  nasty  thrust. 

He  in  his  dinner  jacket,  and  Clara  in  her  green  dress 
and  bare  arms,  were  confused.  They  felt  they  must  shel- 
ter each  other  in  that  little  kitchen. 

"  And  look  at  that  blossom !  "  continued  Mrs.  Radford, 
pointing  to  Clara.  "  What  does  she  reckon  she  did  it 
for?  " 

Paul  looked  at  Clara.  She  was  rosy;  her  neck  was 
warm  with  blushes.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence. 

"  You  like  to  see  it,  don't  you?  "  he  asked. 

The  mother  had  them  in  her  power.  All  the  time  his 
heart  was  beating  hard,  and  he  was  tight  with  anxiety. 
But  he  would  fight  her. 

"  Me  like  to  see  it !  "  exclaimed  the  old  woman.  "  What 
should  I  like  to  see  her  make  a  fool  of  herself  for?  " 

fi  I  've  seen  people  look  bigger  fools,"  he  said.  Clara 
was  under  his  protection  now. 

"  Oh,  ay !  and  when  was  that  ?  "  came  the  sarcastic 
rej  oinder. 

"  When  they  made  frights  of  themselves,"  he  answered. 

Mrs.  Radford,  large  and  threatening,  stood  suspended 
on  the  hearthrug,  holding  her  fork. 

"  They  're  fools  either  road,"  she  answered  at  length, 
turning  to  the  Dutch  oven. 

"  No,"  he  said,  fighting  stoutly.  "  Folk  ought  to  look 
as  well  as  they  can." 

"  And  do  you  call  that  looking  nice !  "  cried  the  mother, 
pointing  a  scornful  fork  at  Clara.  "  That  —  that  looks 
as  if  it  was  n't  properly  dressed !  " 

"  I  believe  you  're  jealous  that  you  can't  swank  as  well," 
he  said,  laughing. 

"  Me !  I  could  have  worn  evening  dress  with  anybody, 
if  I  'd  wanted  to !  "  came  the  scornful  answer. 


412  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  And  why  did  n't  you  want  to?  "  he  asked  pertinently. 
"  Or  did  you  wear  it?  " 

Ther£  was  a  long  pause.  Mrs.  Radford  readjusted  the 
bacon  in  the  Dutch  oven.  His  heart  beat  fast,  for  fear  he 
had  offended  her. 

"  Me !  "  she  exclaimed  at  last.  "  No,  I  did  n't !  And 
when  I  was  in  service,  I  knew  as  soon  as  one  of  the  maids 
came  out  in  bare  shoulders  what  sort  she  was,  going  to 
her  sixpenny  hop !  " 

"Were  you  too  good  to  go  to  a  sixpenny  hop?"  he 
said. 

Clara  sat  with  bowed  head.  His  eyes  were  dark  and 
glittering.  Mrs.  Radford  took  the  Dutch  oven  from  the 
fire,  and  stood  near  him,  putting  bits  of  bacon  on  his 
plate. 

"  There  's  a  nice  crozzly  bit !  "  she  said. 

"  Don't  give  me  the  best !  "  he  said. 

"  She  's  got  what  she  wants,"  was  the  answer. 

There  was  a  sort  of  scornful  forbearance  in  the  woman's 
tone  that  made  Paul  know  she  was  mollified. 

"  But  do  have  some !  "  he  said  to  Clara. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  her  grey  eyes,  humiliated 
and  lonely. 

"  No,  thanks !  "  she  said. 

"Why  won't  you?"  he  answered,  caressively. 

The  blood  was  beating  up  like  fire  in  his  veins.  Mrs. 
Radford  sat  down  again,  large  and  impressive  and  aloof. 
He  left  Clara  altogether  to  attend  to  the  mother. 

"  They  say  Sarah  Bernhardt  's  fifty,"  he  said. 

"  Fifty !  She  's  turned  sixty !  "  came  the  scornful 
answer. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  you  'd  never  think  it !  She  made  me 
want  to  howl  even  now." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  myself  howling  at  that  bad  old  bag- 
gage !  "  said  Mrs.  Radford.  "  It  's  time  she  began  to  think 
herself  a  grandmother,  not  a  shrieking  catamaran  —  " 

He  laughed. 

"  A  catamaran  is  a  boat  the  Malays  use,"  he  said. 


Passion  413 

"  And  it 's  a  word  as  /  use,"  she  retorted. 

"  My  mother  does  sometimes,  and  it 's  no  good  my  tell- 
ing her,"  he  said. 

"  I  s'd  think  she  boxes  your  ears,"  said  Mrs.  Radford, 
good-humouredly. 

"  She  'd  like  to,  and  she  says  she  will,  so  I  give  her 
a  little  stool  to  stand  on." 

"  That 's  the  worst  of  my  mother,"  said  Clara.  "  She 
never  wants  a  stool  for  anything." 

"  But  she  often  can't  touch  that  lady  with  a  long  prop," 
retorted  Mrs.  Radford  to  Paul. 

"  I  s'd  think  she  does  n't  want  touching  with  a  prop," 
he  laughed.  "  /  should  n't." 

"  It  might  do  the  pair  of  you  good  to  give  you  a 
crack  on  the  head  with  one,"  said  the  mother,  laughing 
suddenly. 

"  Why  are  you  so  vindictive  towards  me?  "  he  said. 
"  I  've  not  stolen  anything  from  you." 

"  No ;   I  '11  watch  that,"  laughed  the  older  woman. 

Soon  the  supper  was  finished.  Mrs.  Radford  sat  guard 
in  her  chair.  Paul  lit  a  cigarette.  Clara  went  upstairs, 
returning  with  a  sleeping-suit,  which  she  spread  on  the 
fender  to  air. 

"  Why,  I  'd  forgot  all  about  them!  "  said  Mrs.  Radford. 
"  Where  have  they  sprung  from  ?  " 

"  Out  of  my  drawer." 

"  H'm !  You  bought  'em  for  Baxter,  an'  he  would  n't 
wear  'em,  would  he?  "  —  laughing.  "  Said  he  reckoned  to 
do  wi'out  trousers  i'  bed."  She  turned  confidentially  to 
Paul,  saying :  "  He  could  n't  bear  'em,  them  pyj  ama 
things." 

The  young  man  sat  making  rings  of  smoke. 

"  Well,  it 's  everyone  to  his  taste,"  he  laughed. 

Then  followed  a  little  discussion  of  the  merits  of 
pyjamas. 

"  My  mother  loves  me  in  them,"  he  said.  "  She  says 
I  'm  a  pierrot." 

"  I  can  imagine  they  'd  suit  you,"  said  Mrs.  Radford. 


414  Sons  and  Lovers 

After  a  while  he  glanced  at  the  little  clock  that 
ticking  on  the  mantelpiece.     It  was  half-past  twelve. 

"  It  is  funny,"  he  said,  "  but  it  takes  hours  to  settle 
down  to  sleep  after  the  theatre." 

"  It  's  about  time  you  did,"  said  Mrs.  Radford,  clearing 
the  table. 

"  Are  you  tired?  "  he  asked  of  Clara. 

"  Not  the  least  bit,"  she  answered,  avoiding  his 
eyes. 

"  Shall  we  have  a  game  at  cribbage?  "  he  said. 

"  I  've  forgotten  it." 

"  Well,  I  '11  teach  you  again.  May  we  play  crib,  Mrs. 
Radford?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  '11  please  yourselves,"  she  said ;  "  but  it 's  pretty 
late." 

"  A  game  or  so  will  make  us  sleepy,"  he  answered. 

Clara  brought  the  cards,  and  sat  spinning  her  wedding- 
ring  whilst  he  shuffled  them.  Mrs.  Radford  was  washing 
up  in  the  scullery.  As  it  grew  later  Paul  felt  the  situation 
getting  more  and  more  tense. 

"  Fifteen  two,  fifteen  four,  fifteen  six,  and  two  's 
eight  —  !" 

The  clock  struck  one.  Still  the  game  continued.  Mrs. 
Radford  had  done  all  the  little  jobs  preparatory  to  going 
to  bed,  had  locked  the  door  and  filled  the  kettle.  Still 
Paul  went  on  dealing  and  counting.  He  was  obsessed  by 
Clara's  arms  and  throat.  He  believed  he  could  see  where 
the  division  was  just  beginning  for  her  breasts.  He  could 
not  leave  her.  She  watched  his  hands,  and  felt  her  joints 
melt  as  they  moved  quickly.  She  was  so  near;  it  was 
almost  as  if  he  touched  her,  and  yet  not  quite.  His  mettle 
was  roused.  He  hated  Mrs.  Radford.  She  sat  on,  nearly 
dropping  asleep,  but  determined  and  obstinate  in  her 
chair.  Paul  glanced  at  her,  then  at  Clara.  She  met  his 
eyes,  that  were  angry,  mocking,  and  hard  as  steel.  Her 
own  answered  him  in  shame.  He  knew  she,  at  any  rate, 
was  of  his  mind.  He  played  on. 

At  last  Mrs.  Radford  roused  herself  stiffly,  and  said : 


Passion  415 

"  Is  n't  it  nigh  on  time  you  two  was  thinking  o'  bed?  " 

Paul  played  on  without  answering.  He  hated  her  suffi- 
ciently to  murder  her. 

"  Half  a  minute !  "  he  said. 

The  elder  woman  rose  and  sailed  stubbornly  into  the 
scullery,  returning  with  his  candle,  which  she  put  on  the 
mantelpiece.  Then  she  sat  down  again.  The  hatred  of 
her  went  so  hot  down  his  veins,  he  dropped  his  cards. 

"  We  '11  stop,  then,"  he  said,  but  his  voice  was  still  a 
challenge. 

Clara  saw  his  mouth  shut  hard.  Again  he  glanced  at 
her.  It  seemed  like  an  agreement.  She  bent  over  the 
cards,  coughing,  to  clear  her  throat. 

"  Well,  I  'm  glad  you  've  finished,"  said  Mrs.  Radford. 
"  Here,  take  your  things  "  —  she  thrust  the  warm  suit  in 
his  hand  —  "  and  this  is  your  candle.  Your  room  's  over 
this ;  there  's  only  two,  so  you  can't  go  far  wrong.  Well, 
good-night.  I  hope  you  '11  rest  well." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  shall ;   I  always  do,"  he  said. 

"  Yes ;   and  so  you  ought  at  your  age,"  she  replied. 

He  bade  good-night  to  Clara,  and  went.  The  twisting 
stairs  of  white,  scrubbed  wood  creaked  and  clanged  at 
every  step.  He  went  doggedly.  The  two  doors  faced 
each  other.  He  went  in  his  room,  pushed  the  door  to, 
without  fastening  the  latch. 

It  was  a  small  room  with  a  large  bed.  Some  of  Clara's 
hairpins  were  on  the  dressing-table  —  her  hair-brush.  Her 
clothes  and  some  skirts  hung  under  a  cloth  in  a  corner. 
There  was  actually  a  pair  of  stockings  over  a  chair.  He 
explored  the  room.  Two  books  of  his  own  were  there  on 
the  shelf.  He  undressed,  folded  his  suit,  and  sat  on  the 
bed,  listening.  Then  he  blew  out  the  candle,  lay  down, 
and  in  two  minutes  was  almost  asleep.  Then  click !  —  he 
was  wide  awake  and  writhing  in  torment.  It  was  as  if, 
when  he  had  nearly  got  to  sleep,  something  had  bitten  him 
suddenly  and  sent  him  mad.  He  sat  up  and  looked  at 
the  room  in  the  darkness,  his  feet  doubled  under  him,  per- 
fectly motionless,  listening.  He  heard  a  cat  somewhere 


416  Sons  and  Lovers 

away  outside ;  then  the  heavy,  poised  tread  of  the  mother ; 
then  Clara's  distinct  voice : 

"  Will  you  unfasten  my  dress  ?  " 

There  was  silence  for  some  time.  At  last  the  mother 
said: 

"  Now  then !  are  n't  you  coming  up  ?  " 

"  No,  not  yet,"  replied  the  daughter  calmly. 

"  Oh,  very  well  then !  If  it  's  not  late  enough,  stop  a 
bit  longer.  Only  you  need  n't  come  waking  me  up  when 
I  've  got  to  sleep." 

"  I  shan't  be  long,"  said  Clara. 

Immediately  afterwards  Paul  heard  the  mother  slowly 
mounting  the  stairs.  The  candle-light  flashed  through  the 
cracks  in  his  door.  Her  dress  brushed  the  door,  and  his 
heart  jumped.  Then  it  was  dark,  and  he  heard  the  clat- 
ter of  her  latch.  She  was  very  leisurely  indeed  in  her 
preparations  for  sleep.  After  a  long  time  it  was  quite 
still.  He  sat  strung  up  on  the  bed,  shivering  slightly. 
His  door  was  an  inch  open.  As  Clara  came  upstairs,  he 
would  intercept  her.  He  waited.  All  was  dead  silence. 
The  clock  struck  two.  Then  he  heard  a  slight  scrape  of 
the  fender  downstairs.  Now  he  could  not  help  himself. 
His  shivering  was  uncontrollable.  He  felt  he  must  go  or 
die. 

He  stepped  off  the  bed,  and  stood  a  moment,  shudder- 
ing. Then  he  went  straight  to  the  door.  He  tried  to  step 
lightly.  The  first  stair  cracked  like  a  shot.  He  listened. 
The  old  woman  stirred  in  her  bed.  The  staircase  was 
dark.  There  was  a  slit  of  light  under  the  stair-foot  door, 
which  opened  into  the  kitchen.  He  stood  a  moment.  Then 
he  went  on,  mechanically.  Every  step  creaked,  and  his 
back  was  creeping,  lest  the  old  woman's  door  should  open 
behind  him  up  above.  He  fumbled  with  the  door  at  the 
bottom.  The  latch  opened  with  a  loud  clack.  He  went 
through  into  the  kitchen,  and  shut  the  door  noisily  behind 
him.  The  old  woman  dare  n't  come  now. 

Then  he  stood,  arrested.  Clara  was  kneeling  on  a  pile 
of  white  underclothing  on  the  hearthrug,  her  back  towards 


Passion  417 

him,  warming  herself.  She  did  not  look  round,  but  sat 
crouching  on  her  heels,  and  her  rounded,  beautiful  back 
was  towards  him,  and  her  face  was  hidden.  She  was  warm- 
ing her  body  at  the  fire  for  consolation.  The  glow  was 
rosy  on  one  side,  the  shadow  was  dark  and  warm  on  the 
other.  Her  arms  hung  slack. 

He  shuddered  violently,  clenching  his  teeth  and  fists 
hard  to  keep  control.  Then  he  went  forward  to  her.  He 
put  one  hand  on  her  shoulder,  the  fingers  of  the  other 
hand  under  her  chin  to  raise  her  face.  A  convulsed  shiver 
ran  through  her,  once,  twice,  at  his  touch.  She  kept  her 
head  bent. 

"  Sorry !  "  he  murmured,  realizing  that  his  hands  were 
very  cold. 

Then  she  looked  up  at  him,  frightened,  like  a  thing  that 
is  afraid  of  death. 

"  My  hands  are  so  cold,"  he  murmured. 

"  I  like  it,"  she  whispered,  closing  her  eyes. 

The  breath  of  her  words  was  on  his  mouth.  Her  arms 
clasped  his  knees.  The  cord  of  his  sleeping-suit  dangled 
against  her  and  made  her  shiver.  As  the  warmth  went 
into  him,  his  shuddering  became  less. 

At  length,  unable  to  stand  so  any  more,  he  raised  her, 
and  she  buried  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  His  hands  went 
over  her  slowly  with  an  infinite  tenderness  of  caress.  She 
clung  close  to  him,  trying  to  hide  herself  against  him. 
He  clasped  her  very  fast.  Then  at  last  she  looked  at 
him,  mute,  imploring,  looking  to  see  if  she  must  be 
ashamed. 

His  eyes  were  dark,  very  deep,  and  very  quiet.  It  was 
as  if  her  beauty  and  his  taking  it  hurt  him,  made  him 
sorrowful.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  little  pain,  and  was 
afraid.  He  was  so  humble  before  her.  She  kissed  him 
fervently  on  the  eyes,  first  one,  then  the  other,  and  she 
folded  herself  to  him.  She  gave  herself.  He  held  her  fast. 
It  was  a  moment  intense  almost  to  agony. 

She  stood  letting  him  adore  her  and  tremble  with  joy 
of  her.  It  healed  her  hurt  pride.  It  healed  her ;  it  made 


418  Sons  and  Lovers 

her  glad.  It  made  her  feel  erect  and  proud  again.  Her 
pride  had  been  wounded  inside  her.  She  had  been  cheap- 
ened. Now  she  radiated  with  joy  and  pride  again.  It 
was  her  restoration  and  her  recognition. 

Then  he  looked  at  her,  his  face  jadiant.  They  laughed 
to  each  other,  and  he  strained  her  to  his  chest.  The 
seconds  ticked  off,  the  minutes  passed,  and  still  the  two 
stood  clasped  rigid  together,  mouth  to  mouth,  like  a  statue 
in  one  block. 

But  again  his  fingers  went  seeking  over  her,  restless, 
wandering,  dissatisfied.  The  hot  blood  came  up  wave  upon 
wave.  She  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Come  you  to  my  room,"  he  murmured. 

She  looked  at  him  and  shook  her  head,  her  mouth  pout- 
ing disconsolately,  her  eyes  heavy  with  passion.  He 
watched  her  fixedly. 

"  Yes !  "  he  said. 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"Why  not?  "he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  still  heavily,  sorrowfully,  and  again 
she  shook  her  head.  His  eyes  hardened,  and  he  gave  way. 

When,  later  on,  he  was  back  in  bed,  he  wondered  why 
she  had  refused  to  come  to  him  openly,  so  that  her  mother 
would  know.  At  any  rate,  then  things  would  have  been 
definite.  And  she  could  have  stayed  with  him  the  night, 
without  having  to  go,  as  she  was,  to  her  mother's  bed. 
It  was  strange,  and  he  could  not  understand  it.  And  then 
almost  immediately  he  fell  asleep. 

He  awoke  in  the  morning  with  someone  speaking  to 
him.  Opening  his  eyes,  he  saw  Mrs.  Radford,  big  and 
stately,  looking  down  on  him.  She  held  a  cup  of  tea  in 
her  hand. 

"  Do  you  think  you  're  going  to  sleep  till  Doomsday?  " 
she  said. 

He  laughed  at  once. 

"  It  ought  only  to  be  about  five  o'clock,"  he  said. 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  "  it 's  half-past  seven,  whether 
or  not.  Here,  1 5ve  brought  you  a  cup  of  tea." 


Passion  419 

He  rubbed  his  face,  pushed  the  tumbled  hair  off  his 
forehead,  and  roused  himself. 

"  What 's  it  so  late  for !  "  he  grumbled. 

He  resented  being  awakened.  It  amused  her.  She  saw 
his  neck  in  the  flannel  sleeping-jacket,  as  white  and  round 
as  a  girl's.  He  rubbed  his  hair  crossly. 

"  It 's  no  good  your  scratching  your  head,"  she  said. 
"  It  won't  make  it  no  earlier.  Here,  an'  how  long  d'  you 
think  I  'm  going  to  stand  waiting  wi'  this  here  cup  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dash  the  cup !  "  he  said. 

66  You  should  go  to  bed  earlier,"  said  the  woman. 

He  looked  up  at  her,  laughing  with  impudence. 

"  I  went  to  bed  before  you  did,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  my  Guyney,  you  did !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Fancy,"  he  said,  stirring  his  tea,  "  having  tea 
brought  to  bed  to  me !  My  mother  '11  think  I  'm  ruined 
for  life." 

"Don't  she  never  do  it?  "  asked  Mrs.  Radford. 

"  She  'd  as  leave  think  of  flying." 

"  Ah,  I  always  spoilt  my  lot !  That 's  why  they  've 
turned  out  such  bad  uns,"  said  the  elderly  woman. 

"  You  'd  only  Clara,"  he  said.  "  And  Mr.  Radford  's 
in  heaven.  So  I  suppose  there  's  only  you  left  to  be  the 
bad  un." 

"  I  'm  not  bad ;  I  'm  only  soft,"  she  said,  as  she  went 
out  of  the  bedroom.  "  I  'm  only  a  fool,  I  am !  " 

Clara  was  very  quiet  at  breakfast,  but  she  had  a  sort 
of  air  of  proprietorship  over  him  that  pleased  him  infi- 
nitely. Mrs.  Radford  was  evidently  fond  of  him.  He 
began  to  talk  of  his  painting. 

"  What 's  the  good,"  exclaimed  the  mother,  "  of  your 
whittling  and  worrying  and  twistin'  and  too-in'  at  that 
painting  of  yours?  What  good  does  it  do  you,  I  should 
like  to  know?  You  'd  better  be  enjoyin'  yourself." 

"  Oh,  but,"  exclaimed  Paul,  "  I  made  over  thirty 
guineas  last  year." 

"  Did  you !  Well,  that 's  a  consideration,  but  it 's  noth- 
ing to  the  time  you  put  in." 


420  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  And  I  've  got  four  pounds  owing.  A  man  said  he  'd 
give  me  five  pounds  if  I  'd  paint  him  and  his  missis  and 
the  dog  and  the  cottage.  And  I  went  and  put  the  fowls 
in  instead  of  the  dog,  and  he  was  waxy,  so  I  had  to  knock 
a  quid  off.  I  was  sick  of  it,  and  I  did  n't  like  the  dog.  I 
made  a  picture  of  it.  What  shall  I  do  when  he  pays  me 
the  four  pounds  ?  " 

"  Nay !  you  know  your  own  uses  for  your  money,"  said 
Mrs.  Radford. 

"  But  I  'm  going  to  bust  this  four  pounds.  Should  we 
go  to  the  seaside  for  a  day  or  two?  " 

"Who?" 

"  You  and  Clara  and  me." 

"  What,  on  your  money !  "  she  exclaimed,  half  wrathful. 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  would  n't  be  long  in  breaking  your  neck  at  a 
hurdle  race !  "  she  said. 

"  So  long  as  I  get  a  good  run  for  my  money !  Will 
you?" 

"  Nay ;  you  may  settle  that  atween  you." 

"  And  you  're  willing?  "  he  asked,  amazed  and  rejoicing. 

"  You  '11  do  as  you  like,"  said  Mrs.  Radford,  "  whether 
I  'm  willing  or  not." 


CHAPTER    XIII 

BAXTER    DA  WES 

SOON  after  Paul  had  been  to  the  theatre  with  Clara, 
he  was  drinking  in  the  Punch  Bowl  with  some  friends 
of  his  when  Dawes  came  in.  Clara's  husband  was  growing 
stout;  his  eyelids  were  getting  slack  over  his  brown 
eyes ;  he  was  losing  his  healthy  firmness  of  flesh.  He  was 
very  evidently  on  the  downward  track.  Having  quarrelled 
with  his  sister,  he  had  gone  into  cheap  lodgings.  His 
mistress  had  left  him  for  a  man  who  would  marry  her. 
He  had  been  in  prison  one  night  for  fighting  when  he 
was  drunk,  and  there  was  a  shady  betting  episode  in 
which  he  was  concerned. 

Paul  and  he  were  confirmed  enemies,  and  yet  there 
was  between  them  that  peculiar  feeling  of  intimacy,  as 
if  they  were  secretly  near  to  each  other,  which  sometimes 
exists  between  two  people,  although  they  never  speak 
to  one  another.  Paul  often  thought  of  Baxter  Dawes, 
often  wanted  to  get  at  him  and  be  friends  with  him. 
He  knew  that  Dawes  often  thought  about  him,  and  that 
the  man  was  drawn  to  him  by  some  bond  or  other.  And 
yet  the  two  never  looked  at  each  other  save  in  hostility. 

Since  he  was  a  superior  employee  at  Jordan's,  it  was 
the  thing  for  Paul  to  offer  Dawes  a  drink. 

"  What  '11  you  have?  "  he  asked  of  him. 

"  Nowt  wi'  a  bleeder  like  you !  "  replied  the  man. 

Paul  turned  away  with  a  slight  disdainful  movement 
of  the  shoulders,  very  irritating. 

"  The  aristocracy,"  he  continued,  "  is  really  a  military 
institution.  Take  Germany,  now.  She  's  got  thousands 
of  aristocrats  whose  only  means  of  existence  is  the  army. 
They  're  deadly  poor,  and  life  's  deadly  slow.  So  they 


Sons  and  Lovers 

hope  for  a  war.  They  look  for  war  as  a  chance  of 
getting  on.  Till  there  's  a  war  they  are  idle  good-for- 
nothings.  When  there 's  a  war,  they  are  leaders  and 
commanders.  There  you  are,  then  —  they  want  war !  " 

He  was  not  a  favourite  debater  in  the  public-house, 
being  too  quick  and  overbearing.  He  irritated  the  older 
men  by  his  assertive  manner,  and  his  cocksureness.  They 
listened  in  silence,  and  were  not  sorry  when  he  finished. 

Dawes  interrrupted  the  young  man's  flow  of  eloquence 
by  asking,  in  a  loud  sneer: 

"Did  you  learn  all  that  at  th'  theatre  th'  other 
night?" 

Paul  looked  at  him;  their  eyes  met.  Then  he  knew 
Dawes  had  seen  him  coming  out  of  the  theatre  with 
Clara. 

"  Why,  what  about  th'  theatre?  "  asked  one  of  Paul's 
associates,  glad  to  get  a  dig  at  the  young  fellow,  and 
sniffing  something  tasty. 

"  Oh,  him  in  a  bob-tailed  evening  suit,  on  the  lardy- 
da!"  sneered  Dawes,  jerking  his  head  contemptuously 
at  Paul. 

"  That 's  comin'  it  strong,"  said  the  mutual  friend. 
"Tart  an'  all?" 

"  Tart,  begod !  "  said  Dawes. 

"  Go  on ;    let 's  have  it !  "  cried  the  mutual  friend. 

"  You  've  got  it,"  said  Dawes,  "  an'  I  reckon  Morelly 
had  it  an'  all." 

"Well,  I'll  be  jiggered!"  said  the  mutual  friend. 
"  An'  was  it  a  proper  tart  ?  " 

"Tart,   God  blimey  — yes!" 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Dawes,  "  I  reckon  he  spent  th'  night  —  " 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  laughter  at  Paul's  expense. 

"But  who  was  she?  D'  you  know  her?"  asked  the 
mutual  friend. 

"  I  should  shay  sho,"  said  Dawes. 

This  brought  another  burst  of  laughter. 

"  Then  spit  it  out,"  said  the  mutual  friend. 


Baxter  Dawes  423 

Dawes  shook  his  head,  and  took  a  gulp  of  beer. 

"  It 's  a  wonder  he  has  n't  let  on  himself,"  he  said. 
"  He  '11  be  braggin'  of  it  in  a  bit." 

"  Come  on,  Paul,"  said  the  friend ;  "  it 's  no  good. 
You  might  just  as  well  own  up." 

"  Own  up  what  ?  That  I  happened  to  take  a  friend  to 
the  theatre?" 

"  Oh  well,  if  it  was  all  right,  tell  us  who  she  was, 
lad,"  said  the  friend. 

"  She  was  all  right,"  said  Dawes. 

Paul  was  furious.  Dawes  wiped  his  golden  moustache 
with  his  fingers,  sneering. 

"Strike  me —  !  One  o'  that  sort?"  said  the  mutual 
friend.  "  Paul,  boy,  I  'm  surprised  at  you.  And  do  you 
know  her,  Baxter?  " 

"  Just  a  bit,  like !  " 

He  winked  at  the  other  men. 

"Oh  well,"  said  Paul,  "I'll  be  going!" 

The  mutual  friend  laid  a  detaining  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  Nay,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  get  off  as  easy  as  that, 
my  lad.  We  've  got  to  have  a  full  account  of  this 
business." 

"  Then  get  it  from  Dawes !  "  he  said. 

"  You  should  n't  funk  your  own  deeds,  man,"  remon- 
strated the  friend. 

Then  Dawes  made  a  remark  which  caused  Paul  to 
throw  half  a  glass  of  beer  in  his  face. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Morel !  "  cried  the  barmaid,  and  she  rang 
the  bell  for  the  "  chucker-out." 

Dawes  spat  and  rushed  for  the  young  man.  At  that 
minute  a  brawny  fellow  with  his  shirt-sleeves  rolled  up 
and  his  trousers  tight  over  his  haunches  intervened. 

"  Now,  then ! "  he  said,  pushing  his  chest  in  front  of 
Dawes. 

"  Come  out !  "  cried  Dawes. 

Paul  was  leaning,  white  and  quivering,  against  the  brass 
rail  of  the  bar.  He  hated  Dawes,  wished  something  could 


424  Sons  and  Lovers 

exterminate  him  at  that  minute;    and  at  the  same  time, 
seeing  the  wet  hair  on  the  man's  forehead,  he  thought 
he  looked  pathetic.     He  did  not  move. 
"  Come  out,  you  — ,"  said  Dawes. 
"  That 's  enough,  Dawes,"  cried  the  barmaid. 
"  Come  on,"  said  the  "  chucker-out,"   with  kindly  in- 
sistence, "  you  'd  better  be  getting  on." 

And,  by  making  Dawes  edge  away  from  his  own  close 
proximity,  he  worked  him  to  the  door. 

"  That  V  the  little  sod  as  started  it !  "  cried  Dawes, 
half  cowed,  pointing  to  Paul  Morel. 

"  Why,  what  a  story,  Mr.  Dawes !  "  said  the  barmaid. 
"  You  know  it  was  you  all  the  time." 

Still  the  "  chucker-out  "  kept  thrusting  his  chest  for- 
ward at  him,  still  he  kept  edging  back,  until  he  was  in 
the  doorway  and  on  the  steps  outside;  then  he  turned 
round. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  nodding  straight  at  his  rival. 
Paul  had  a  curious  sensation  of  pity,  almost  of  affec- 
tion, mingled  with  violent  hate,  for  the  man.     The  col- 
oured door  swung  to;    there  was  silence  in  the  bar. 
"Serve  him  jolly  well  right!"  said  the  barmaid. 
"  But  it 's   a  nasty  thing  to  get   a   glass   of  beer   in 
your  eyes,"  said  the  mutual  friend. 

"  I  tell  you  /  was  glad  he  did,"  said  the  barmaid. 
"Will  you  have  another,  Mr.  Morel?" 

She  held  up  Paul's  glass  questioningly.     He  nodded. 
"  He  's  a  man  as  does  n't  care  for  anything,  is  Baxter 
Dawes,"  said  one. 

"Pooh!  is  he?"  said  the  barmaid.  "He's  a  loud- 
mouthed one,  he  is,  and  they  're  never  much  good.  Give 
me  a  pleasant-spoken  chap,  if  you  want  a  devil !  " 

"  Well,  Paul,  my  lad,"  said  the  friend,  "  you  '11  have 
to  take  care  of  yourself  now  for  a  while." 

"  You  won't  have  to  give  him  a  chance  over  you,  that 's 
all,"  said  the  barmaid. 

"  Can  you  box?  "  asked  a  friend. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  he  answered,  still  very  white. 


Baxter  Dawes  425 

"  I  might  give  you  a  turn  or  two,"  said  the  friend. 

"  Thanks,  I  have  n't  time." 

And  presently  he  took  his  departure. 

"  Go  along  with  him,  Mr.  Jenkinson,"  whispered  the 
barmaid,  tipping  Mr.  Jenkinson  the  wink. 

The  man  nodded,  took  his  hat,  said  "  Good-night  all !  " 
very  heartily,  and  followed  Paul,  calling: 

"  Half  a  minute,  old  man.  You  an'  me  's  going  the 
same  road,  I  believe." 

"  Mr.  Morel  does  n't  like  it,"  said  the  barmaid. 
"  You  '11  see,  we  shan't  have  him  in  much  more.  I  'm 
sorry ;  he  's  good  company.  And  Baxter  Dawes  wants 
locking  up,  that 's  what  he  wants." 

Paul  would  have  died  rather  than  his  mother  should 
get  to  know  of  this  affair.  He  suffered  tortures  of 
humiliation  and  self-consciousness.  There  was  now  a 
good  deal  of  his  life  of  which  necessarily  he  could  not 
speak  to  his  mother.  He  had  a  life  apart  from  her  — 
his  sexual  life.  The  rest  she  still  kept.  But  he  felt 
he  had  to  conceal  something  from  her,  and  it  irked  him. 
There  was  a  certain  silence  between  them,  and  he  felt 
he  had,  in  that  silence,  to  defend  himself  against  her; 
he  felt  condemned  by  her.  Then  sometimes  he  hated  her, 
and  pulled  at  her  bondage.  His  life  wanted  to  free  itself 
of  her.  It  was  like  a  circle  where  life  turned  back  on 
itself,  and  got  no  farther.  She  bore  him,  loved  him, 
kept  him,  and  his  love  turned  back  into  her,  so  that  he 
could  not  be  free  to  go  forward  with  his  own  life,  really 
love  another  woman.  At  this  period,  unknowingly,  he 
resisted  his  mother's  influence.  He  did  not  tell  her 
things ;  there  was  a  distance  between  them. 

Clara  was  happy,  almost  sure  of  him.  She  felt  she 
had  at  last  got  him  for  herself;  and  then  again  came 
the  uncertainty.  He  told  her  jestingly  of  the  affair  with 
her  husband.  Her  colour  came  up,  her  grey  eyes 
flashed. 

"  That 's  him  to  a  '  T,'  "  she  cried  —  "  like  a  navvy ! 
He  's  not  fit  for  mixing  with  decent  folk." 


426  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Yet  you  married  him,"  he  said. 

It  made  her  furious  that  he  reminded  her. 

"  I  did !  "  she  cried.     "  But  how  was  I  to  know !  " 

"  I  think  he  might  have  been  rather  nice,"  he  said. 

"  You  think  /  made  him  what  he  is ! "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Oh  no !  he  made  himself.  But  there 's  something 
about  him  —  " 

Clara  looked  at  her  lover  closely.  There  was  some- 
thing in  him  she  hated,  a  sort  of  detached  criticism  of 
herself,  a  coldness  which  made  her  woman's  soul  harden 
against  him. 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do?  "  she  asked. 

"How?" 

"About  Baxter." 

"  There  's  nothing  to  do,  is  there?  "  he  replied. 

"  You  can  fight  him  if  you  have  to,  I  suppose  ?  "  she 
said. 

"No;  I  haven't  the  least  sense  of  the  'fist.'  It's 
funny.  With  most  men  there 's  the  instinct  to  clench 
the  fist  and  hit.  It 's  not  so  with  me.  I  should  want  a 
knife  or  a  pistol  or  something  to  fight  with." 

"  Then  you  'd  better  carry  something,"  she  said. 

"  Nay,"  he  laughed ;    "  I  'm  not  daggeroso." 

"  But  he  '11  do  something  to  you.  You  don't  know 
him." 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  "  we  '11  see." 

"And  you'll  let  him?" 

"  Perhaps,  if  I  can't  help  it." 

"  And  if  he  kills  you?  "  she  said. 

"  I  should  be  sorry,  for  his  sake  and  mine." 

Clara  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  You  do  make  me  angry !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  That 's  nothing  afresh,"  he  laughed. 

"  But  why  are  you  so  silly?     You  don't  know  him." 

"And  don't  want." 

"  Yes,  but  you  're  not  going  to  let  a  man  do  as  he  likes 
with  you  ?  " 

"What  must  I  do?"  he  replied,  laughing. 


Baxter  Dawes  427 

"  I  should  carry  a  revolver,"  she  said.  "  I  'm  sure 
he  's  dangerous/' 

"  I  might  blow  my  fingers  off,"  he  said. 

"  No ;   but  won't  you  ?  "  she  pleaded. 

"  No." 

"  Not  anything?  " 

"  No." 

"  And  you  '11  leave  him  to  — -  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  are  a  fool !  " 

"Fact!" 

She  set  her  teeth  with  anger. 

"  I  could  shake  you ! "  she  cried,  trembling  with 
passion. 

"Why?" 

"  Let  a  man  like  him  do  as  he  likes  with  you." 

"  You  can  go  back  to  him  if  he  triumphs,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  hate  you?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,  I  only  tell  you,"  he  said. 

"  And  you  say  you  love  me !  "  she  exclaimed,  low  and 
indignant. 

"  Ought  I  to  slay  him  to  please  you?  "  he  said.  "  But 
if  I  did,  see  what  a  hold  he  'd  have  over  me." 

"  Do  you  think  I  'm  a  fool?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Not  at  all.    But  you  don't  understand  me,  my  dear." 

There  was  a  pause  between  them. 

"  But  you  ought  not  to  expose  yourself,"  she  pleaded. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  *  The  man  in  righteousness  arrayed, 

The  pure  and  blameless  liver, 
Needs  not  the  keen  Toledo  blade, 
Nor  venom-freighted  quiver/  "  j 

he  quoted. 

She  looked  at  him  searchingly. 

"  I  wish  I  could  understand  you,"  she  said. 

"  There  's  simply  nothing  to  understand,"  he  laughed. 

She  bowed  her  head,  brooding. 

He   did   not   see   Dawes    for   several   days;     then    one 


428  Sons  and  Lovers 

morning  as  he  ran  upstairs  from  the  spiral  room  he 
almost  collided  with  the  burly  metal-worker. 

"  What  the  —  !  "  cried  the  smith. 

"  Sorry !  "   said  Paul,   and  passed   on. 

"  Sorry!  "   sneered  Dawes. 

Paul  whistled  lightly,  "  Put  Me  among  the  Girls." 

"  I  '11  stop  your  whistle,  my  jockey!  "  he  said. 

The  other  took  no  notice. 

"You're  goin'  to  answer  for  that  job  of  the  other 
night." 

Paul  went  to  his  desk  in  his  corner,  and  turned  over 
the  leaves  of  the  ledger. 

"  Go  and  tell  Fanny  I  want  order  097,  quick !  "  he  said 
to  his  boy. 

Dawes  stood  in  the  doorway,  tall  and  threatening, 
looking  at  the  top  of  the  young  man's  head. 

"  Six  and  five  's  eleven  and  seven  's  one-and-six,"  Paul 
added  aloud. 

"  An'  you  hear,  do  you !  "  said  Dawes. 

"  Five  and  ninepence!  "  He  wrote  a  figure.  "  What 's 
that?  "  he  said. 

"  I  'm  going  to  show  you  what  it  is,"  said  the  smith. 

The  other  went  on  adding  the  figures  aloud. 

"  Yer  crawlin'  little  —  ,  yer  dares  n't  face  me  proper !  " 

Paul  quickly  snatched  the  heavy  ruler.  Dawes  started. 
The  young  man  ruled  some  lines  in  his  ledger.  The  elder 
man  was  infuriated. 

"  But  wait  till  I  light  on  you,  no  matter  where  it  is, 
I  '11  settle  your  hash  for  a  bit,  yer  little  swine !  " 

"  All  right,"  said  Paul. 

At  that  the  smith  started  heavily  from  the  doorway. 
Just  then  a  whistle  piped  shrilly.  Paul  went  to  the 
speaking-tube. 

"  Yes  !  "  he  said,  and  he  listened.  "  Er  —  yes  !  "  He 
listened,  then  he  laughed.  "  I  '11  come  down  directly. 
I  've  got  a  visitor  just  now." 

Dawes  knew  from  his  tone  that  he  had  been  speaking 
to  Clara.  He  stepped  forward. 


Baxter  Dawes  429 

"  Yer  little  devil !  "  he  said.  "  I  '11  visitor  you,  inside 
of  two  minutes !  Think  I  'm  goin'  ter  have  you  whip- 
perty-snappin'  round?  " 

The  other  clerks  in  the  warehouse  looked  up.  Paul's 
office-boy  appeared,  holding  some  white  article. 

"  Fanny  says  you  could  have  had  it  last  night  if  you  Jd 
let  her  know,"  he  said. 

"  All  right,"  answered  Paul,  looking  at  the  stocking. 
"  Get  it  off." 

Dawes  stood  frustrated,  helpless  with  rage.  Morel 
turned  round. 

"  Excuse  me  a  minute,"  he  said  to  Dawes,  and  he  would 
have  run  downstairs. 

"  By  God,  I  '11  stop  your  gallop ! "  shouted  the  smith, 
seizing  him  by  the  arm.  He  turned  quickly. 

"  Hey !  hey !  "  cried  the  office-boy,  alarmed. 

Thomas  Jordan  started  out  of  his  little  glass  office, 
and  came  running  down  the  room. 

"What's  a-matter,  what's  a-matter?  "  he  said,  in  his 
old  man's  sharp  voice. 

"I'm  just  goin'  ter  settle  this  little  —  ,  that's  all," 
said  Dawes  desperately. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  snapped  Thomas  Jordan. 

"  What  I  say,"  said  Dawes,  but  he  hung  fire. 

Morel  was  leaning  against  the  counter,  ashamed,  half 
grinning. 

"  What 's  it  all  about  ?  "  snapped  Thomas  Jordan. 

"  Could  n't  say,"  said  Paul,  shaking  his  head  and 
shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"  Could  n't  yer,  could  n't  yer !  "  cried  Dawes,  thrust- 
ing forward  his  handsome,  furious  face,  and  squaring 
his  fist. 

"  Have  you  finished?  "  cried  the  old  man,  strutting. 
"  Get  off  about  your  business,  and  don't  come  here  tipsy 
in  the  morning." 

Dawes  turned  his  big  frame  slowly  upon  him. 

"  Tipsy!''  he  said.  "Who's  tipsy?  I'm  no  more 
tipsy  than  you  are !  " 


430  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  We  've  heard  that  song  before,"  snapped  the  old 
man.  "  Now  you  get  off,  and  don't  be  long  about  it. 
Comin'  here  with  your  rowdying." 

The  smith  looked  down  contemptuously  on  his  em- 
ployer. His  hands,  large  and  grimy,  and  yet  well  shaped 
for  his  labour,  worked  restlessly.  Paul  remembered  they 
were  the  hands  of  Clara's  husband,  and  a  flash  of  hate 
went  through  him. 

"  Get  out  before  you  're  turned  out !  "  snapped  Thomas 
Jordan. 

"  Why,  who  '11  turn  me  out?  "  said  Dawes,  beginning 
to  sneer. 

Mr.  Jordan  started,  marched  up  to  the  smith,  waving 
him  off,  thrusting  his  stout  little  figure  at  the  man, 
saying: 

"  Get  off  my  premises  —  get  off !  " 

He  seized  and  twitched  Dawes'  arm. 

"Come  off!"  said  the  smith,  and  with  a  jerk  of  the 
elbow  he  sent  the  little  manufacturer  staggering 
backwards. 

Before  anyone  could  help  him,  Thomas  Jordan  had 
collided  with  the  flimsy  spring-door.  It  had  given  way, 
and  let  him  crash  down  the  half-dozen  steps  into  Fanny's 
room.  There  was  a  second  of  amazement;  then  men  and 
girls  were  running.  Dawes  stood  a  moment  looking 
bitterly  on  the  scene,  then  he  took  his  departure. 

Thomas  Jordan  was  shaken  and  bruised,  not  otherwise 
hurt.  He  was,  however,  beside  himself  with  rage.  He 
dismissed  Dawes  from  his  employment,  and  summoned 
him  for  assault. 

At  the  trial  Paul  Morel  had  to  give  evidence.  Asked 
how  the  trouble  began,  he  said: 

"  Dawes  took  occasion  to  insult  Mrs.  Dawes  and  me  be- 
cause I  accompanied  her  to  the  theatre  one  evening;  then 
I  threw  some  beer  at  him,  and  he  wanted  his  revenge." 

"  Cherchez  la  femme !  "  smiled  the  magistrate. 

The  case  was  dismissed  after  the  magistrate  had  told 
Dawes  he  thought  him  a  skunk. 


Baxter  Dawes  431 

"  You  gave  the  case  away,"  snapped  Mr.  Jordan  to 
Paul. 

"  I  don't  think  I  did,"  replied  the  latter.  "  Besides, 
you  did  n't  realjy  want  a  conviction,  did  you  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  think  I  took  the  case  up  for  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Paul,  "  I  'm  sorry  if  I  said  the  wrong 
thing." 

Clara  was  also  very  angry. 

"  Why  need  my  name  have  been  dragged  in  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Better  speak  it  openly  than  leave  it  to  be  whispered." 

"  There  was  no  need  for  anything  at  all,"  she  declared. 

"  We  are  none  the  poorer,"  he  said  indifferently. 

"  You  may  not  be,"  she  said. 

"And  you?"  he  asked. 

"  I  need  never  have  been  mentioned." 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  he  said ;    but  he  did  not  sound  sorry. 

He  told  himself  easily :  "  She  will  come  round."  And 
she  did. 

He  told  his  mother  about  the  fall  of  Mr.  Jordan  and 
the  trial  of  Dawes.  Mrs.  Morel  watched  him  closely. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  it  all  ?  "  she  asked  him. 

"  I  think  he  's  a  fool,"  he  said. 

But  he  was  very  uncomfortable,  nevertheless. 

"  Have  you  ever  considered  where  it  will  end?  "  his 
mother  said. 

"  No,"  he  answered ;   "  things  work  out  of  themselves." 

"  They  do,  in  a  way  one  does  n't  like,  as  a  rule,"  said 
his  mother. 

"  And  then  one  has  to  put  up  with  them,"  he  said. 

66  You  '11  find  you  're  not  as  good  at  '  putting  up  '  as 
you  imagine,"  she  said. 

He  went  on  working  rapidly  at  his  design. 

"  Do  you  ever  ask  her  opinion?  "  she  said  at  length. 

"What  of?" 

"  Of  you,  and  the  whole  thing." 

"  I  don't  care  what  her  opinion  of  me  is.  She  's  fear- 
fully in  love  with  me,  but  it 's  not  very  deep." 

"  But  quite  as  deep  as  your  feeling  for  her." 


432  Sons  and  Lovers 

He  looked  up  at  his  mother  curiously. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  You  know,  mother,  I  think  there 
must  be  something  the  matter  with  me,  that  I  can't  love*. 
When  she  's  there,  as  a  rule,  I  do  love  her.  Sometimes, 
when  I  see  her  just  as  the  woman,  I  love  her,  mother; 
but  then,  when  she  talks  and  criticizes,  I  often  don't 
listen  to  her." 

"  Yet  she  's  as  much  sense  as  Miriam." 

"  Perhaps ;  and  I  love  her  better  than  Miriam.  But 
why  don't  they  hold  me?  " 

The  last  question  was  almost  a  lamentation.  His 
mother  turned  away  her  face,  sat  looking  across  the  room, 
very  quiet,  grave,  with  something  of  renunciation. 

"But  you  wouldn't  want  to  marry  Clara?"  she 
said. 

"  No ;  at  first  perhaps  I  would.  But  why  —  why  don't 
I  want  to  marry  her  or  anybody?  I  feel  sometimes  as  if 
I  wronged  my  women,  mother." 

"  How  wronged  them,  my  son  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

He  went  on  painting  rather  despairingly;  he  had 
touched  the  quick  of  the  trouble. 

"  And  as  for  wanting  to  marry,"  said  his  mother, 
"  there  *s  plenty  of  time  yet." 

"  But  no,  mother.  I  even  love  Clara,  and  I  did  Miriam ; 
but  to  give  myself  to  them  in  marriage  I  could  n't.  I 
could  n't  belong  to  them.  They  seem  to  want  me,  and  I 
can't  ever  give  it  them." 

"  You  have  n't  met  the  right  woman." 

"  And  I  never  shall  meet  the  right  woman  while  you 
live,"  he  said. 

She  was  very  quiet.  Now  she  began  to  feel  again  tired, 
as  if  she  were  done. 

"  We  '11  see,  my  son,"  she  answered. 

The  feeling  that  things  were  going  in  a  circle  made 
him  mad. 

Clara  was,  indeed,  passionately  in  love  with  him,  and 
he  with  her,  as  far  as  passion  went.  In  the  daytime  he 


Baxter  Dawes  433 

forgot  her  a  good  deal.  She  was  working  in  the  same 
building,  but  he  was  not  aware  of  it.  He  was  busy,  and 
her  existence  was  of  no  matter  to  him.  But  all  the  time 
she  was  in  her  spiral  room  she  had  a  sense  that  he  was 
upstairs,  a  physical  sense  of  his  person  in  the  same  build- 
ing. Every  second  she  expected  him  to  come  through  the 
door,  and  when  he  came  it  was  a  shock  to  her.  But  he  was 
often  short  and  offhand  with  her.  He  gave  her  his  direc- 
tions in  an  official  manner,  keeping  her  at  bay.  With  what 
wits  she  had  left  she  listened'  to  him.  She  dared  not  mis- 
understand or  fail  to  remember,  but  it  was  a  cruelty  to 
her.  She  wanted  to  touch  his  chest.  She  knew  exactly  how 
his  breast  was  shapen  under  the  waistcoat,  and  she  wanted 
to  touch  it.  It  maddened  her  to  hear  his  mechanical 
voice  giving  orders  about  the  work.  She  wanted  to  break 
through  the  sham  of  it,  smash  the  trivial  coating  of  busi- 
ness which  covered  him  with  hardness,  get  at  the  man 
again;  but  she  was  afraid,  and  before  she  could  feel 
one  touch  of  his  warmth*  he  was  gone,  and  she  ached 
again. 

He  knew  that  she  was  dreary  every  evening  she  did 
not  see  him,  so  he  gave  her  a  good  deal  of  his  time.  The 
days  were  often  a  misery  to  her,  but  the  evenings  and  the 
nights  were  usually  a  bliss  to  them  both.  Then  they  were 
silent.  For  hours  they  sat  together,  or  walked  together 
in  the  dark,  and  talked  only  a  few,  almost  meaningless 
words.  But  he  had  her  hand  in  his,  and  her  bosom  left 
its  warmth  in  his  chest,  making  him  feel  whole. 

One  evening  they  were  walking  down  by  the  canal,  and 
something  was  troubling  him.  She  knew  she  had  not 
got  him.  All  the  time  he  whistled  softly  and  persistently 
to  himself.  She  listened,  feeling  she  could  learn  more 
from  his  whistling  than  from  his  speech.  It  was  a  sad, 
dissatisfied  tune  —  a  tune  that  made  her  feel  he  would 
not  stay  with  her.  She  walked  on  in  silence.  When 
they  came  to  the  swing  bridge  he  sat  down  on  the  great 
pole,  looking  at  the  stars  in  the  water.  He  was  a  long 
way  from  her.  She  had  been  thinking. 


434  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Will  you  always  stay  at  Jordan's  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  answered  without  reflecting.  "  No ;  I  s'll 
leave  Nottingham  and  go  abroad  —  soon." 

"Go  abroad!     What  for?" 

"I  dunno!     I  feel  restless." 

"But  what  shall  you  do?" 

"  I  shall  have  to  get  some  steady  designing  work,  and 
some  sort  of  sale  for  my  pictures  first,"  he  said.  "  I 
am  gradually  making  my  way.  I  know  I  am." 

"  And  when  do  you  think  you  '11  go  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  shall  hardly  go  for  long,  while 
there  's  my  mother." 

"  You  could  n't  leave  her?  " 

"  Not  for  long." 

She  looked  at  the  stars  in  the  black  water.  They  lay 
very  white  and  staring.  It  was  an  agony  to  know  he 
would  leave  her,  but  it  was  almost  an  agony  to  have  him 
near  her. 

"  And  if  you  made  a  nice  lot  of  money,  what  would 
you  do  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Go  somewhere  in  a  pretty  house  near  London  with 
my  mother." 

"  I  see." 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"  I  could  still  come  and  see  you,"  he  said.  "  I  don't 
know.  Don't  ask  me  what  I  should  do ;  I  don't  know." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  stars  shuddered  and  broke 
upon  the  water.  There  came  a  breath  of  wind.  He 
went  suddenly  to  her,  and  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Don't  ask  me  anything  about  the  future,"  he  said 
miserably.  "  I  don't  know  anything.  Be  with  me  now, 
will  you,  no  matter  what  it  is  ?  " 

And  she  took  him  in  her  arms.  After  all,  she  was  a 
married  woman,  and  she  had  no  right  even  to  what  he 
gave  her.  He  needed  her  badly.  She  had  him  in  her  arms, 
and  he  was  miserable.  With  her  warmth  she  folded  him 
over,  consoled  him,  loved  him.  She  would  let  the  moment 
stand  for  itself. 


Baxter  Dawes  435 

After  a  moment  he  lifted  his  head  as  if  he  wanted  to 
speak. 

"  Clara,"  he  said,  struggling. 

She  caught  him  passionately  to  her,  pressed  his  head 
down  on  her  breast  with  her  hand.  She  could  not  bear 
the  suffering  in  his  voice.  She  was  afraid  in  her  soul. 
He  might  have  anything  of  her  —  anything ;  but  she 
did  not  want  to  know.  She  felt  she  could  not  bear  it. 
She  wanted  him  to  be  soothed  upon  her  —  soothed.  She 
stood  clasping  him  and  caressing  him,  and  he  was  some- 
thing unknown  to  her  —  something  almost  uncanny.  She 
wanted  to  soothe  him  into  forgetfulness. 

And  soon  the  struggle  went  down  in  his  soul,  and  he 
forgot.  But  then  Clara  was  not  there  for  him,  only  a 
woman,  warm,  something  he  loved  and  almost  worshipped, 
there  in  the  dark.  But  it  was  not  Clara,  and  she  sub- 
mitted to  him.  The  naked  hunger  and  inevitability  of 
his  loving  her,  something  strong  and  blind  and  ruthless 
in  its  primitiveness,  made  the  hour  almost  terrible  to 
her.  She  knew  how  stark  and  alone  he  was,  and  she  felt 
it  was  great  that  he  came  to  her;  and  she  took  him 
simply  because  his  need  was  bigger  either  than  her 
or  him,  and  her  soul  was  still  within  her.  She  did  this 
for  him  in  his  need,  even  if  he  left  her,  for  she  loved 
him. 

All  the  while  the  peewits  were  screaming  in  the  field. 
When  he  came  to,  he  wondered  what  was  near  his  eyes, 
curving  and  strong  with  life  in  the  dark,  and  what  voice 
it  was  speaking.  Then  he  realized  it  was  the  grass,  and 
the  peewit  was  calling.  The  warmth  was  Clara's  breath- 
ing heaving.  He  lifted  his  head,  and  looked  into  her 
eyes.  They  were  dark  and  shining  and  strange,  life 
wild  at  the  source  staring  into  his  life,  stranger  to  him, 
yet  meeting  him ;  and  he  put  his  face  down  on  her  throat, 
afraid.  What  was  she?  A  strong,  strange,  wild  life, 
that  breathed  with  his  in  the  darkness  through  this  hour. 
It  was  all  so  much  bigger  than  themselves  that  he  was 
hushed.  They  had  met,  and  included  in  their  meeting 


436  Sons  and  Lovers 

the  thrust  of  the  manifold  grass-stems,  the  cry  of  the 
peewit,  the  wheel  of  the  stars. 

When  they  stood  up  they  saw  other  lovers  stealing 
down  the  opposite  hedge.  It  seemed  natural  they  were 
there ;  the  night  contained  them. 

And  after  such  an  evening  they  both  were  very  still, 
having  known  the  immensity  of  passion.  They  felt  small, 
half  afraid,  childish,  and  wondering,  like  Adam  and  Eve 
when  they  lost  their  innocence  and  realized  the  magnifi- 
cence of  the  power  which  drove  them  out  of  Paradise 
and  across  the  great  night  and  the  great  day  of  human- 
ity. It  was  for  each  of  them  an  initiation  and  a  satis- 
faction. To  know  their  own  nothingness,  to  know  the 
tremendous  living  flood  which  carried  them  always,  gave 
them  rest  within  themselves.  If  so  great  a  magnificent 
power  could  overwhelm  them,  identify  them  altogether 
with  itself,  so  that  they  knew  they  were  only  grains  in 
the  tremendous  heave  that  lifted  every  grass-blade  its 
little  height,  and  every  tree,  and  living  thing,  then  why 
fret  about  themselves?  They  could  let  themselves  be 
carried  by  life,  and  they  felt  a  sort  of  peace  each  in 
the  other.  There  was  a  verification  which  they  had  had 
together.  Nothing  could  nullify  it,  nothing  could  take 
it  away ;  it  was  almost  their  belief  in  life. 

But  Clara  was  not  satisfied.  Something  great  was 
there,  she  knew;  something  great  enveloped  her.  But 
it  did  not  keep  her.  In  the  morning  it  was  not  the  same. 
They  had  known,  but  she  could  not  keep  the  moment. 
She  wanted  it  again;  she  wanted  something  permanent. 
She  had  not  realized  fully.  She  thought  it  was  he  whom 
she  wanted.  He  was  not  safe  to  her.  This  that  had 
been  between  them  might  never  be  again;  he  might  leave 
her.  She  had  not  got  him;  she  was  not  satisfied.  She 
had  been  there,  but  she  had  not  gripped  the  —  the  some- 
thing —  she  knew  not  what  —  which  she  was  mad  to 
have. 

In  the  morning  he  had  considerable  peace,  and  was 
happy  in  himself.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  he  had  known 


Baxter  Dawes  437 

the  baptism  of  fire  in  passion,  and  it  left  him  at  rest. 
But  it  was  not  Clara.  It  was  something  that  happened 
because  of  her,  but  it  was  not  her.  They  were  scarcely 
any  nearer  each  other.  It  was  as  if  they  had  been  blind 
agents  of  a  great  force. 

When  she  saw  him  that  day  at  the  factory  her  heart 
melted  like  a  drop  of  fire.  It  was  his  body,  his  brows. 
The  drop  of  fire  grew  more  intense  in  her  breast;  she 
must  hold  him.  But  he,  very  quiet,  very  subdued  this 
morning,  went  on  giving  his  instructions.  She  followed 
him  into  the  dark,  ugly  basement,  and  lifted  her  arms  to 
him.  He  kissed  her,  and  the  intensity  of  passion  began 
to  burn  him  again.  Somebody  was  at  the  door.  He  ran 
upstairs ;  she  returned  to  her  room,  moving  as  if  in  a 
trance. 

After  that  the  fire  slowly  went  down.  He  felt  more 
and  more  that  his  experience  had  been  impersonal,  and 
not  Clara.  He  loved  her.  There  was  a  big  tenderness, 
as  after  a  strong  emotion  they  had  known  together;  but 
it  was  not  she  who  could  keep  his  soul  steady.  He  had 
wanted  her  to  be  something  she  could  not  be. 

And  she  was  mad  with  desire  of  him.  She  could  not 
see  him  without  touching  him.  In  the  factory,  as  he 
talked  to  her  about  spiral  hose,  she  ran  her  hand  secretly 
along  his  side.  She  followed  him  out  into  the  basement 
for  a  quick  kiss;  her  eyes,  always  mute  and  yearning, 
full  of  unrestrained  passion,  she  kept  fixed  on  his.  He 
was  afraid  of  her,  lest  she  should  too  flagrantly  give  her- 
self away  before  the  other  girls.  She  invariably  waited 
for  him  at  dinner-time  for  him  to  embrace  her  before 
she  went.  He  felt  as  if  she  were  helpless,  almost  a  burden 
to  him,  and  it  irritated  him. 

"  But  what  do  you  always  want  to  be  kissing  and  em- 
bracing for?  "  he  said.  "  Surely  there  's  a  time  for  every- 
thing." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  the  hate  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  Do  I  always  want  to  be  kissing  you?  "  she  said. 

"  Always,  even  if  I  come  to  ask  you  about  the  work. 


438  Sons  and  Lovers 

I  don't  want  anything  to  do  with  love  when  I  'm  at  work. 
Work's  work  —  " 

"And  what  is  love?"  she  asked.  "Has  it  to  have 
special  hours  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  out  of  work  hours." 

"  And  you  '11  regulate  it  according  to  Mr.  Jordan's 
closing  time?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  according  to  the  freedom  from  business  of 
any  sort." 

"  It  is  only  to  exist  in  spare  time?  " 

"  That 's  all,  and  not  always  then  —  not  the  kissing 
sort  of  love." 

"  And  that 's  all  you  think  of  it?  " 

"  It 's  quite  enough." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  think  so." 

And  she  was  cold  to  him  for  some  time  —  she  hated 
him;  and  while  she  was  cold  and  contemptuous,  he  was 
uneasy  till  she  had  forgiven  him  again.  But  when  they 
started  afresh  they  were  not  any  nearer.  He  kept  her 
because  he  never  satisfied  her. 

In  the  spring  they  went  together  to  the  seaside.  They 
had  rooms  at  a  little  cottage  near  Theddlethorpe,  and 
lived  as  man  and  wife.  Mrs.  Radford  sometimes  went 
with  them. 

It  was  known  in  Nottingham  that  Paul  Morel  and 
Mrs.  Dawes  were  going  together,  but  as  nothing  was 
very  obvious,  and  Clara  was  always  a  solitary  person, 
and  he  seemed  so  simple  and  innocent,  it  did  not  make 
much  difference. 

He  loved  the  Lincolnshire  coast,  and  she  loved  the  sea. 
In  the  early  morning  they  often  went  out  together  to 
bathe.  The  grey  of  the  dawn,  the  far,  desolate  reaches 
of  the  fenland  smitten  with  winter,  the  sea-meadows  rank 
with  herbage,  were  stark  enough  to  rejoice  his  soul.  As 
they  stepped  on  to  the  highroad  from  their  plank  bridge, 
and  looked  round  at  the  endless  monotony  of  levels,  the 
land  a  little  darker  than  the  sky,  the  sea  sounding  small 
beyond  the  sandhills,  his  heart  filled  strong  with  the 


Baxter  Dawes  439 

sweeping  relentlessness  of  life.  She  loved  him  then.  He 
was  solitary  and  strong,  and  his  eyes  had  a  beautiful 
light. 

They  shuddered  with  cold;  then  he  raced  her  down 
the  road  to  the  green  turf  bridge.  She  could  run  well. 
Her  colour  soon  came,  her  throat  was  bare,  her  eyes 
shone.  He  loved  her  for  being  so  luxuriously  heavy,  and 
yet  so  quick.  Himself  was  light;  she  went  with  a  beau- 
tiful rush.  They  grew  warm,  and  walked  hand  in  hand. 

A  flush  came  into  the  sky ;  the  wan  moon,  half-way  down 
the  west,  sank  into  insignificance.  On  the  shadowy  land 
things  began  to  take  life,  plants  with  great  leaves  be- 
came distinct.  They  came  through  a  pass  in  the  big, 
cold  sandhills  on  to  the  beach.  The  long  waste  of  fore- 
shore lay  moaning  under  the  dawn  and  the  sea ;  the  ocean 
was  a  flat  dark  strip  with  a  white  edge.  Over  the  gloomy 
sea  the  sky  grew  red.  Quickly  the  fire  spread  among  the 
clouds  and  scattered  them.  Crimson  burned  to  orange, 
orange  to  dull  gold,  and  in  a  golden  glitter  the  sun  came 
up,  dribbling  fierily  over  the  waves  in  little  splashes,  as 
if  someone  had  gone  along  and  the  light  had  spilled  from 
her  pail  as  she  walked. 

The  breakers  ran  down  the  shore  in  long,  hoarse 
strokes.  Tiny  seagulls,  like  specks  of  spray,  wheeled 
above  the  line  of  surf.  Their  crying  seemed  larger  than 
they.  Far  away  the  coast  reached  out,  and  melted  into 
the  morning,  the  tussocky  sandhills  seemed  to  sink  to  a 
level  with  the  beach.  Mablethorpe  was  tiny  on  their 
right.  They  had  alone  the  space  of  all  this  level  shore, 
the  sea,  and  the  upcoming  sun,  the  faint  noise  of  the 
waters,  the  sharp  crying  of  the  gulls. 

They  had  a  warm  hollow  in  the  sandhills  where  the 
wind  did  not  come.  He  stood  looking  out  to  sea. 

"It's  very  fine,"  he   said. 

"  Now  don't  get  sentimental,"  she  said. 

It  irritated  her  to  see  him  standing  gazing  at  the  sea, 
like  a  solitary  and  poetic  person.  He  laughed.  She 
quickly  undressed. 


440  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  There  are  some  fine  waves  this  morning,"  she  said 
triumphantly. 

She  was  a  better  swimmer  than  he;  he  stood  idly 
watching  her. 

"Aren't  you  coming?"  she  said. 

"  In  a  minute,"  he  answered. 

She  was  white  and  velvet  skinned,  with  heavy  shoulders. 
A  little  wind,  coming  from  the  sea,  blew  across  her  body 
and  ruffled  her  hair. 

The  morning  was  of  a  lovely  limpid  gold  colour.  Veils 
of  shadow  seemed  to  be  drifting  away  on  the  north  and 
the  south.  Clara  stood  shrinking  slightly  from  the  touch 
of  the  wind,  twisting  her  hair.  The  sea-grass  rose  be- 
hind the  white  stripped  woman.  She  glanced  at  the  sea, 
then  looked  at  him.  He  was  watching  her  with  dark  eyes 
which  she  loved  and  could  not  understand.  She  hugged 
her  breasts  between  her  arms,  cringing,  laughing: 

"  Oo,  it  will  be  so  cold !  "  she  said. 

He  bent  forward  and  kissed  her,  held  her  suddenly 
close,  and  kissed  her  again.  She  stood  waiting.  He 
looked  into  her  eyes,  then  away  at  the  pale  sands. 

"  Go,  then !  "  he  said  quietly. 

She  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck,  drew  him  against 
her,  kissed  him  passionately,  and  went,  saying: 

"But  you'll  come  in?" 

"  In  a  minute." 

She  went  plodding  heavily  over  the  sand  that  was  soft 
as  velvet.  He,  on  the  sandhills,  watched  the  great  pale 
coast  envelop  her.  She  grew  smaller,  lost  proportion, 
seemed  only  like  a  large  white  bird  toiling  forward. 

"  Not  much  more  than  a  big  white  pebble  on  the  beach, 
not  much  more  than  a  clot  of  foam  being  blown  and 
rolled  over  the  sand,"  he  said  to  himself. 

She  seemed  to  move  very  slowly  across  the  vast  sound- 
ing shore.  As  he  watched,  he  lost  her.  She  was  dazzled 
out  of  sight  by  the  sunshine.  Again  he  saw  her,  the 
merest  white  speck  moving  against  the  white,  muttering 
sea-edge. 


Baxter  Dawes  441 

"  Look  how  little  she  is !  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  She  's 
lost  like  a  grain  of  sand  in  the  beach  —  just  a  concen- 
trated speck  blown  along,  a  tiny  white  foam-bubble,  al- 
most nothing  among  the  morning.  Why  does  she 
absorb  me?  " 

The  morning  was  altogether  uninterrupted:  she  was 
gone  in  the  water.  Far  and  wide  the  beach,  the  sand- 
hills with  their  blue  marrain,  the  shining  water,  glowed 
together  in  immense,  unbroken  solitude. 

"  What  is  she,  after  all?  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  Here  's 
the  sea-coast  morning,  big  and  permanent  and  beautiful; 
there  is  she,  fretting,  always  unsatisfied,  and  temporary 
as  a  bubble  of  foam.  What  does  she  mean  to  me,  after 
all?  She  represents  something,  like  a  bubble  of  foam 
represents  the  sea.  But  what  is  she ?  It 's  not  her  I 
care  for." 

Then,  startled  by  his  own  unconscious  thoughts,  that 
seemed  to  speak  so  distinctly  that  all  the  morning  could 
hear,  he  undressed  and  ran  quickly  down  the  sands.  She 
was  watching  for  him.  Her  arm  flashed  up  to  him,  she 
heaved  on  a  wave,  subsided,  her  shoulders  in  a  pool  of 
liquid  silver.  He  jumped  through  the  breakers,  and  in 
a  moment  her  hand  was  on  his  shoulder. 

He  was  a  poor  swimmer,  and  could  not  stay  long  in 
the  water.  She  played  round  him  in  triumph,  sporting 
with  her  superiority,  which  he  begrudged  her.  The  sun- 
shine stood  deep  and  fine  on  the  water.  They  laughed  in 
the  sea  for  a  minute  or  two,  then  raced  each  other  back 
to  the  sandhills. 

When  they  were  drying  themselves,  panting  heavily,  he 
watched  her  laughing,-  breathless  face,  her  bright  shoul- 
ders, her  breasts  that  swayed  and  made  him  frightened 
as  she  rubbed  them,  and  he  thought  again: 

"  But  she  is  magnificent,  and  even  bigger  than  the 
morning  and  the  sea.  Is  she — ?  is  she — ?" 

She,  seeing  his  dark  eyes  fixed  on  her,  broke  off  from 
her  drying  with  a  laugh. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at?  "  she  said. 


442  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  You,"  he  answered,  laughing. 

Her  eyes  met  his,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  kissing  her 
white  "goose-fleshed"  shoulder,  and  thinking: 

"  What  is  she?    What  is  she?  " 

She  loved  him  in  the  morning.  There  was  something 
detached,  hard,  and  elemental  about  his  kisses  then,  as 
if  he  were  only  conscious  of  his  own  will,  not  in  the  least 
of  her  and  her  wanting  him. 

Later  in  the  day  he  went  out  sketching. 

"  You,"  he  said  to  her,  "  go  with  your  mother  to 
Sutton.  I  am  so  dull." 

She  stood  and  looked  at  him.  He  knew  she  wanted  to 
come  with  him,  but  he  preferred  to  be  alone.  She  made 
him  feel  imprisoned  when  she  was  there,  as  if  he  could 
not  get  a  free  deep  breath,  as  if  there  were  something 
on  top  of  him.  She  felt  his  desire  to  be  free  of 
her. 

In  the  evening  he  came  back  to  her.  They  walked  down 
the  shore  in  the  darkness,  then  sat  for  awhile  in  the 
shelter  of  the  sandhills. 

"  It  seems,"  she  said,  as  they  stared  over  the  dark- 
ness of  the  sea,  where  no  light  was  to  be  seen  — "  it 
seemed  as  if  you  only  loved  me  at  night  —  as  if  you 
did  n't  love  me  in  the  daytime." 

He  ran  the  cold  sand  through  his  fingers,  feeling  guilty 
under  the  accusation. 

"  The  night  is  free  to  you,"  he  replied.  "  In  the  day- 
time I  want  to  be  by  myself." 

"But  why?"  she  said.  "Why,  even  now,  when  we 
are  on  this  short  holiday?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Love-making  stifles  me  in  the  day- 
time." 

"  But  it  need  n't  be  always  love-making,"  she  said. 

"  It  always  is,"  he  answered,  "  when  you  and  I  are 
together." 

She  sat  feeling  very  bitter. 

"  Do  you  ever  want  to  marry  me  ?  "  he  asked  curiously. 

"  Do  you  me  ?  "  she  replied. 


Baxter  Dawes  443 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  should  like  us  to  have  children,"  he 
answered  slowly. 

She  sat  with  her  head  bent,  fingering  the  sand. 

"  But  you  don't  really  want  a  divorce  from  Baxter, 
do  you?  "  he  said. 

It  was  some  minutes  before  she  replied. 

"  No,"  she  said,  very  deliberately ;  "  I  don't  think 
I  do." 

"Why?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Do  you  feel  as  if  you  belonged  to  him?  " 

"No;    I  don't  think  so." 

"What,  then?" 

"  I  think  he  belongs  to  me,"  she  replied. 

He  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  listening  to  the  wind 
blowing  over  the  hoarse,  dark  sea. 

"  And  you  never  really  intended  to  belong  to  me?  " 
he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  do  belong  to  you,"  she  answered. 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  because  you  don't  want  to  be 
divorced." 

It  was  a  knot  they  could  not  untie,  so  they  left  it, 
took  what  they  could  get,  and  what  they  could  not  attain 
they  ignored. 

"  I  consider  you  treated  Baxter  rottenly,"  he  said 
another  time. 

He  half  expected  Clara  to  answer  him,  as  his  mother 
would:  "You  consider  your  own  affairs,  and  don't  know 
so  much  about  other  people's."  But  she  took  him  se- 
riously, almost  to  his  own  surprise. 

"Why?  "she  said. 

"  I  suppose  you  thought  he  was  a  lily  of  the  valley, 
and  so  you  put  him  in  an  appropriate  pot,  and  tended 
him  according.  You  made  up  your  mind  he  was  a  lily 
of  the  valley,  and  it  was  no  good  his  being  a  cow-parsnip. 
You  would  n't  have  it." 

"  I  certainly  never  imagined  him  a  lily  of  the  valley." 

"  You  imagined  him  something  he  was  n't.    That 's  just 


444    4  Sons  and  Lovers 

what  a  woman  is.  She  thinks  she  knows  what 's  good  for 
a  man,  and  she  's  going  to  see  he  gets  it ;  and  no  matter 
if  he  's  starving,  he  may  sit  and  whistle  for  what  he  needs, 
while  she  ?s  got  him,  and  is  giving  him  what 's  good  for 
him." 

"  And  what  are  you  doing?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  'm  thinking  what  tune  I  shall  whistle,"  he  laughed. 

And  instead  of  boxing  his  ears,  she  considered  him  in 
earnest. 

"  You  think  I  want  to  give  you  what 's  good  for  you  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  I  hope  so ;  but  love  should  give  a  sense  of  freedom, 
not  of  prison.  Miriam  made  me  feel  tied  up  like  a  donkey 
to  a  stake.  I  must  feed  on  her  patch,  and  nowhere  else. 
It 's  sickening !  " 

"  And  would  you  let  a  woman  do  as  she  likes  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  '11  see  that  she  likes  to  love  me.  If  she  does  n't 
—  well,  I  don't  hold  her." 

"  If  you  were  as  wonderful  as  you  say  — • ,"  replied 
Clara. 

"  I  should  be  the  marvel  I  am,"  he  laughed. 

There  was  a  silence  in  which  they  hated  each  other, 
though  they  laughed. 

"  Love  's  a  dog  in  the  manger,"  he  said. 

"  And  which  of  us  is  the  dog?  " 

"  Oh  well,  you,  of  course." 

So  there  went  on  a  battle  between  them.  She  knew 
she  never  fully  had  him.  Some  part,  big  and  vital  in 
him,  she  had  no  hold  over;  nor  did  she  ever  try  to  get 
it,  or  even  to  realize  what  it  was.  And  he  knew  in  some 
way  that  she  held  herself  still  as  Mrs.  Dawes.  She  did 
not  love  Dawes,  never  had  loved  him ;  but  she  believed 
he  loved  her,  at  least  depended  on  her.  She  felt  a  cer- 
tain surety  about  him  that  she  never  felt  with  Paul 
Morel.  Her  passion  for  the  young  man  had  filled  her 
soul,  given  her  a  certain  satisfaction,  eased  her  of  her 
self-mistrust,  her  doubt.  Whatever  else  she  was,  she  was 
inwardly  assured.  It  was  almost  as  if  she  had  gained 


Baxter  Dawes  445 

herself,  and  stood  now  distinct  and  complete.  She  had 
received  her  confirmation;  but  she  never  believed  that 
her  life  belonged  to  Paul  Morel,  nor  his  to  her.  They 
would  separate  in  the  end,  and  the  rest  of  her  life  would 
be  an  ache  after  him.  But  at  any  rate,  she  knew  now,  she 
was  sure  of  herself.  And  the  same  could  almost  be  said 
of  him.  Together  they  had  received  the  baptism  of 
life,  each  through  the  other;  but  now  their  missions  were 
separate.  Where  he  wanted  to  go  she  could  not  come 
with  him.  They  would  have  to  part  sooner  or  later. 
Even  if  they  married,  and  were  faithful  to  each  other, 
still  he  would  have  to  leave  her,  go  on  alone,  and  she  would 
only  have  to  attend  to  him  when  he  came  home.  But  it 
was  not  possible.  Each  wanted  a  mate  to  go  side  by 
side  with. 

Clara  had  gone  to  live  with  her  mother  upon  Mapperley 
Plains.  One  evening,  as  Paul  and  she  were  walking  along 
Woodborough  Road,  they  met  Dawes.  Morel  knew 
something  about  the  bearing  of  the  man  approaching, 
but  he  was  absorbed  in  his  thinking  at  the  moment,  so 
that  only  his  artist's  eye  watched  the  form  of  the  stranger. 
Then  he  suddenly  turned  to  Clara  with  a  laugh,  and  put 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  saying,  laughing: 

"  But  we  walk  side  by  side,  and  yet  I  'm  in  London 
arguing  with  an  imaginary  Orpen;  and  where  are  you?  " 

At  that  instant  Dawes  passed,  almost  touching  Morel. 
The  young  man  glanced,  saw  the  dark  brown  eyes  burn- 
ing, full  of  hate  and  yet  tired. 

"  Who  was  that?  "  he  asked  of  Clara. 

"  It  was  Baxter,"  she  replied. 

Paul  took  his  hand  from  her  shoulder  and  glanced 
round;  then  he  saw  again  distinctly  the  man's  form  as 
it  approached  him.  Dawes  still  walked  erect,  with  his 
fine  shoulders  flung  back,  and  his  face  lifted;  but  there 
was  a  furtive  look  in  his  eyes  that  gave  one  the  impression 
he  was  trying  to  get  unnoticed  past  every  person  he  met, 
glancing  suspiciously  to  see  what  they  thought  of  him. 
And  his  hands  seemed  to  be  wanting  to  hide.  He  wore 


446  Sons  and  Lovers 

old  clothes,  the  trousers  were  torn  at  the  knee,  and  the 
handkerchief  tied  round  his  throat  was  dirty;  but  his 
cap  was  still  defiantly  over  one  eye.  As  she  saw  him, 
Clara  felt  guilty.  There  was  a  tiredness  and  despair 
on  his  face  that  made  her  hate  him,  because  it  hurt 
her. 

"He  looks  shady,"  said  Paul. 

But  the  note  of  pity  in  his  voice  reproached  her,  and 
made  her  feel  hard. 

"  His  true  commonness  comes  out,"  she  answered. 

"  Do  you  hate  him?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  talk,"  she  said,  "  about  the  cruelty  of  women ; 
I  wish  you  knew  the  cruelty  of  men  in  their  brute  force. 
They  simply  don't  know  that  the  woman  exists." 

"Don't   I?"   lie    said. 

"  No,"  she  answered. 

"  Don't  I  know  you  exist?  " 

"  About  me  you  know  nothing,"  she  said  bitterly  — 
"  about  me!  " 

"  Not  more  than  Baxter  knew?  "  he  asked. 

"  Perhaps  not  as  much." 

He  felt  puzzled,  and  helpless,  and  angry.  There  she 
walked,  unknown  to  him,  though  they  had  been  through 
such  experience  together. 

"  But  you  know  me  pretty  well,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  Did  you  know  Baxter  as  well  as  you  know  me  ? M 
he  asked. 

"  He  would  n't  let  me,"  she  said. 

"  And  I  have  let  you  know  me  ?  " 

"  It 's  what  men  won't  let  you  do.  They  won't  let 
you  get  really  near  to  them,"  she  said. 

"  And  have  n't  I  let  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  slowly ;  "  but  you  've  never  come 
near  to  me.  You  can't  come  out  of  yourself,  you  can't. 
Baxter  could  do  that  better  than  you." 

He  walked  on  pondering.  He  was  angry  with  her  for 
preferring  Baxter  to  him. 


Baxter  Dawes  447 

"  You  begin  to  value  Baxter  now  you  Ve  not  got  him," 
he  said. 

"  No ;  I  can  only  see  where  he  was  different  from 
you." 

But  he  felt  she  had  a  grudge  against  him. 

One  evening,  as  they  were  coming  home  over  the  fields, 
she  startled  him  by  asking: 

"Do  you  think  it's  worth  it  —  the  —  the  sex  part?" 

"  The  act  of  loving,  itself?  " 

"  Yes ;    is  it  worth  anything  to  you  ?  " 

"  But  how  can  you  separate  it?  "  he  said.  "  It 's  the 
culmination  of  everything.  All  our  intimacy  culminates 
then." 

"  Not  for  me,"  she  said. 

He  was  silent.  A  flash  of  hate  for  her  came  up.  After 
all,  she  was  dissatisfied  with  him,  even  there,  where  he 
thought  they  fulfilled  each  other.  But  he  believed  her 
too  implicitly. 

"  I  feel,"  she  continued  slowly,  "  as  if  I  had  n't  got 
you,  as  if  all  of  you  were  n't  there,  and  as  if  it  were  n't 
me  you  were  taking  —  " 

"Who,  then?" 

"  Something  just  for  yourself.  It  has  been  fine,  so 
that  I  dare  n't  think  of  it.  But  is  it  me  you  want,  or  is 
it  It?" 

He  again  felt  guilty.  Did  he  leave  Clara  out  of  count, 
and  take  simply  woman?  But  he  thought  that  was 
splitting  a  hair. 

"  When  I  had  Baxter,  actually  had  him,  then  I  did 
feel  as  if  I  had  all  of  him,"  she  said. 

"  And  it  was  better?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  it  was  more  whole.  I  don't  say  you 
have  n't  given  me  more  than  he  ever  gave  me." 

"  Or  could  give  you." 

"  Yes,  perhaps ;    but  you  've  never  given  me  yourself." 

He  knitted  his  brows  angrily. 

"  If  I  start  to  make  love  to  you,"  he  said,  "  I  just  go 
like  a  leaf  down  the  wind." 


448  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  And  leave  me  out  of  count,"  she  said. 

"  And  then  is  it  nothing  to  you?  "  he  asked,  almost 
rigid  with  chagrin. 

"  It 's  something ;  and  sometimes  you  have  carried  me 
away  —  right  away  —  I  know  —  and  —  I  reverence  you 
for  it  —  but  —  " 

"  Don't  '  but '  me,"  he  said,  kissing  her  quickly,  as  a 
fire  ran  through  him. 

She  submitted,  and  was  silent. 

It  was  true  as  he  said.  As  a  rule,  when  he  started 
love-making,  the  emotion  was  strong  enough  to  carry 
with  it  everything  —  reason,  soul,  blood  —  in  a  great 
sweep,  like  the  Trent  carries  bodily  its  back-swirls  and 
inter twinings,  noiselessly.  Gradually  the  little  criticisms, 
the  little  sensations,  were  lost,  thought  also  went,  every- 
thing borne  along  in  one  flood.  He  became,  not  a  man 
with  a  mind,  but  a  great  instinct.  His  hands  were  like 
creatures,  living;  his  limbs,  his  body,  were  all  life  and 
consciousness,  subject  to  no  will  of  his,  but  living  in 
themselves.  Just  as  he  was,  so  it  seemed  the  vigorous, 
wintry  stars  were  strong  also  with  life.  He  and  they 
struck  with  the  same  pulse  of  fire,  and  the  same  joy  of 
strength  which  held  the  bracken-frond  stiff  near  his  eyes 
held  his  own  body  firm.  It  was  as  if  he,  and  the  stars, 
and  the  dark  herbage,  and  Clara  were  licked  up  in  an 
immense  tongue  of  flame,  which  tore  onwards  and  up- 
wards. Everything  rushed  along  in  living  beside  him; 
everything  was  still,  perfect  in  itself,  along  with  him. 
This  wonderful  stillness  in  each  thing  in  itself,  while  it 
was  being  borne  along  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  living,  seemed 
the  highest  point  of  bliss. 

And  Clara  knew  this  held  him  to  her,  so  she  trusted 
altogether  to  the  passion.  It,  however,  failed  her  very 
often.  They  did  not  often  reach  again  the  height  of 
that  once  when  the  peewits  had  called.  Gradually,  some 
mechanical  effort  spoilt  their  loving,  or,  when  they  had 
splendid  moments,  they  had  them  separately,  and  not  so 
satisfactorily.  So  often  he  seemed  merely  to  be  running 


Baxter  Datves  449 

on  alone;  often  they  realized  it  had  been  a  failure,  not 
what  they  had  wanted.  He  left  her,  knowing  that  even- 
ing had  only  made  a  little  split  between  them.  Their 
loving  grew  more  mechanical,  without  the  marvellous 
glamour.  Gradually  they  began  to  introduce  novelties, 
to  get  back  some  of  the  feeling  of  satisfaction.  They 
would  be  very  near,  almost  dangerously  near  to  the  river, 
so  that  the  black  water  ran  not  far  from  his  face,  and  it 
gave  a  little  thrill ;  or  they  loved  sometimes  in  a  little  hol- 
low below  the  fence  of  the  path  where  people  were  passing 
occasionally,  on  the  edge  of  the  town,  and  they  heard 
footsteps  coming,  almost  felt  the  vibration  of  the  tread, 
and  they  heard  what  the  passers-by  said  —  strange  little 
things  that  were  never  intended  to  be  heard.  And  after- 
wards each  of  them  was  rather  ashamed,  and  these  things 
caused  a  distance  between  the  two  of  them.  He  began 
to  despise  her  a  little,  as  if  she  had  merited  it! 

One  night  he  left  her  to  go  to  Daybrook  Station  over 
the  fields.  It  was  very  dark,  with  an  attempt  at  snow, 
although  the  spring  was  so  far  advanced.  Morel  had 
not  much  time;  he  plunged  forward.  The  town  ceases 
almost  abruptly  on  the  edge  of  a  steep  hollow;  there 
the  houses  with  their  yellow  lights  stand  up  against  the 
darkness.  He  went  over  the  stile,  and  dropped  quickly 
into  the  hollow  of  the  fields.  Under  the  orchard  one 
warm  window  shone  in  Swineshead  Farm.  Paul  glanced 
round.  Behind,  the  houses  stood  on  the  brim  of  the 
dip,  black  against  the  sky,  like  wild  beasts  glaring 
curiously  with  yellow  eyes  down  into  the  darkness.  It 
was  the  town  that  seemed  savage,  and  uncouth,  glaring 
on  the  clouds  at  the  back  of  him.  Some  creature  stirred 
under  the  willows  of  the  farm  pond.  It  was  too  dark  to 
distinguish  anything. 

He  was  close  up  to  the  next  stile  before  he  saw  a  dark 
shape  leaning  against  it.  The  man  moved  aside. 

"  Good-evening !  "  he  said. 

"  Good-evening !  "  Morel  answered,  not  noticing. 

"  Paul  Morel  ?  "  said  the  man. 


450  Sons  and  Lovers 

Then  he  knew  it  was  Dawes.  The  man  stopped  his 
way. 

"  1 've  got  yer,  have  I  ?  "  he  said  awkwardly. 

"  I  shall  miss  my  train,"  said  Paul. 

He  could  see  nothing  of  Dawes'  face.  The  man's  teeth 
seemed  to  chatter  as  he  talked. 

"  You  're  going  to  get  it  from  me  now,"  said  Dawes. 

Morel  attempted  to  move  forward;  the  other  man 
stepped  in  front  of  him. 

"  Are  yer  goin'  to  take  that  top-coat  off,"  he  said,  "  or 
are  you  goin'  to  lie  down  to  it?  " 

Paul  was  afraid  the  man  was  mad. 

"  But,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  know  how  to  fight." 

"  All  right,  then,"  answered  Dawes,  and  before  the 
younger  man  knew  where  he  was  he  was  staggering  back- 
wards from  a  blow  across  the  face. 

The  whole  night  went  black.  He  tore  off  his  overcoat 
and  coat,  dodging  a  blow,  and  flung  the  garments  over 
Dawes.  The  latter  swore  savagely.  Morel,  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, was  now  alert  and  furious.  He  felt  his  whole 
body  unsheath  itself  like  a  claw.  He  could  not  fight, 
so  he  would  use  his  wits.  The  other  man  became  more 
distinct  to  him;  he  could  see  particularly  the  shirt- 
breast.  Dawes  stumbled  over  Paul's  coats,  then  came 
rushing  forward.  The  young  man's  mouth  was  bleeding. 
It  was  the  other  man's  mouth  he  was  dying  to  get  at, 
and  the  desire  was  anguish  in  its  strength.  He  stepped 
quickly  through  the  stile,  and  as  Dawes  was  coming 
through  after  him,  like  a  flash  he  got  a  blow  in  over 
the  other's  mouth.  He  shivered  with  pleasure.  Dawes 
advanced  slowly,  spitting.  Paul  was  afraid;  he  moved 
round  to  get  to  the  stile  again.  Suddenly,  from  out  of 
nowhere,  came  a  great  blow  against  his  ear,  that  sent  him 
falling  helpless  backwards.  He  heard  Dawes'  heavy 
panting,  like  a  wild  beast's ;  then  came  a  kick  on  his  knee, 
giving  him  such  agony  that  he  got  up  and,  quite  blind, 
leapt  clean  under  his  enemy's  guard.  He  felt  blows  and 
kicks,  but  they  did  not  hurt.  He  hung  on  to  the  bigger 


Baxter  Dawes  451 

man  like  a  wild  cat,  till  at  last  Dawes  fell  with  a  crash, 
losing  his  presence  of  mind.  Paul  went  down  with  him. 
Pure  instinct  brought  his  hands  to  the  man's  neck,  and 
before  Dawes,  in  frenzy  and  agony,  could  wrench  him 
free,  he  had  got  his  fists  twisted  in  the  scarf  and  his 
knuckles  dug  in  the  throat  of  the  other  man.  He  was 
a  pure  instinct,  without  reason  or  feeling.  His  body, 
hard  and  wonderful  in  itself,  cleaved  against  the  strug- 
gling body  of  the  other  man;  not  a  muscle  in  him  re- 
laxed. He  was  quite  unconscious,  only  his  body  had 
taken  upon  itself  to  kill  this  other  man.  For  himself,  he 
had  neither  feeling  nor  reason.  He  lay  pressed  hard 
against  his  adversary,  his  body  adjusting  itself  to  its 
one  pure  purpose  of  choking  the  other  man,  resisting 
exactly  at  the  right  moment,  with  exactly  the  right 
amount  of  strength,  the  struggles  of  the  other,  silent,  in- 
tent, unchanging,  gradually  pressing  its  knuckles  deeper, 
feeling  the  struggles  of  the  other  body  become  wilder  and 
more  frenzied.  Tighter  and  tighter  grew  his  body,  like 
a  screw  that  is  gradually  increasing  in  pressure,  till 
something  breaks. 

Then  suddenly  he  relaxed,  full  of  wonder  and  misgiving. 
Dawes  had  been  yielding.  Morel  felt  his  body  flame  with 
pain,  as  he  realized  what  he  was  doing;  he  was  all  be- 
wildered. Dawes'  struggles  suddenly  renewed  themselves 
in  a  furious  spasm.  Paul's  hands  were  wrenched,  torn  out 
of  the  scarf  in  which  they  were  knotted,  and  he  was  flung 
away,  helpless.  He  heard  the  horrid  sound  of  the  other's 
gasping,  but  he  lay  stunned;  then,  still  dazed,  he  felt 
the  blows  of  the  other's  feet,  and  lost  consciousness. 

Dawes,  grunting  with  pain  like  a  beast,  was  kicking 
the  prostrate  body  of  his  rival.  Suddenly  the  whistle  of 
the  train  shrieked  two  fields  away.  He  turned  round 
and  glared  suspiciously.  What  was  coming?  He  saw 
the  lights  of  the  train  draw  across  his  vision.  It  seemed 
to  him  people  were  approaching.  He  made  off  across  the 
field  into  Nottingham,  and  dimly  in  his  consciousness 
as  he  went,  he  felt  on  his  foot  the  place  where  his  boot 


452  Sons  and  Lovers 

had  knocked  against  one  of  the  lad's  bones.  The  knock 
seemed  to  re-echo  inside  him;  he  hurried  to  get  away 
from  it. 

Morel  gradually  came  to  himself.  He  knew  where  he 
was  and  what  had  happened,  but  he  did  not  want  to 
move.  He  lay  still,  with  tiny  bits  of  snow  tickling  his 
face.  It  was  pleasant  to  lie  quite,  quite  still.  The  time 
passed.  It  was  the  bits  of  snow  that  kept  rousing  him 
when  he  did  not  want  to  be  roused.  At  last  his  will 
clicked  into  action. 

"  I  must  n't  lie  here,"  he  said;   "  it 's  silly." 

But  still  he  did  not  move. 

"  I  said  I  was  going  to  get  up,"  he  repeated.  "  Why 
don't  I?  » 

And  still  it  was  some  time  before  he  had  sufficiently 
pulled  himself  together  to  stir;  then  gradually  he  got 
up.  Pain  made  him  sick  and  dazed,  but  his  brain  was 
clear.  Reeling,  he  groped  for  his  coats  and  got  them 
on,  buttoning  his  overcoat  up  to  his  ears.  It  was  some 
time  before  he  found  his  cap.  He  did  not  know  whether 
his  face  was  still  bleeding.  Walking  blindly,  every  step 
making  him  sick  with  pain,  he  went  back  to  the  pond 
and  washed  his  face  and  hands.  The  icy  water  hurt,  but 
helped  to  bring  him  back  to  himself.  He  crawled  back 
up  the  hill  to  the  tram.  He  wanted  to  get  to  his  mother 
—  he  must  get  to  his  mother  —  that  was  his  blind  inten- 
tion. He  covered  his  face  as  much  as  he  could,  and 
struggled  sickly  along.  Continually  the  ground  seemed 
to  fall  away  from  him  as  he  walked,  and  he  felt  himself 
dropping  with  a  sickening  feeling  into  space;  so,  like 
a  nightmare,  he  got  through  with  the  journey  home. 

Everybody  was  in  bed.  He  looked  at  himself.  His 
face  was  discoloured  and  smeared  with  blood,  almost  like 
a  dead  man's  face.  He  washed  it,  and  went  to  bed.  The 
night  went  by  in  delirium.  In  the  morning  he  found  his 
mother  looking  at  him.  Her  blue  eyes  —  they  were 
all  he  wanted  to  see.  She  was  there;  he  was  in  her 
hands. 


Baxter  Dawes  453 

"  It 's  not  much,  mother,"  he  said.  "  It  was  Baxter 
Dawes." 

"  Tell  me  where  it  hurts  you,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  I  don't  know  —  my  shoulder.  Say  it  was  a  bicycle 
accident,  mother." 

He  could  not  move  his  arm.  Presently  Minnie,  the 
little  servant,  came  upstairs  with  some  tea. 

"  Your  mother  's  nearly  frightened  me  out  of  my  wits 
—  fainted  away,"  she  said. 

He  felt  he  could  not  bear  it.  His  mother  nursed  him ; 
he  told  her  about  it. 

"  And  now  I  should  have  done  with  them  all,"  she  said 
quietly. 

"  I  will,  mother." 

She  covered  him  up. 

"  And  don't  think  about  it,"  she  said  —  "  only  try  to 
go  to  sleep.  The  doctor  won't  be  here  till  eleven." 

He  had  a  dislocated  shoulder,  and  the  second  day  acute 
bronchitis  set  in.  His  mother  was  pale  as  death  now, 
and  very  thin.  She  would  sit  and  look  at  him,  then 
away  into  space.  There  was  something  between  them 
that  neither  dared  mention.  Clara  came  to  see  him. 
Afterwards  he  said  to  his  mother: 

"  She  makes  me  tired,  mother." 

"  Yes ;   I  wish  she  would  n't  come,"  Mrs.  Morel  replied. 

Another  day  Miriam  came,  but  she  seemed  almost  like 
a  stranger  to  him. 

"  You  know,  I  don't  care  about  them,  mother,"  he 
said. 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  don't,  my  son,"  she  replied 
sadly. 

It  was  given  out  everywhere  that  it  was  a  bicycle 
accident.  Soon  he  was  able  to  go  to  work  again,  but 
now  there  was  a  constant  sickness  and  gnawing  at  his 
heart.  He  went  to  Clara,  but  there  seemed,  as  it  were, 
nobody  there.  He  could  not  work.  He  and  his  mother 
seemed  almost  to  avoid  each  other.  There  was  some 
secret  between  them  which  they  could  not  bear.  He  was 


454  Sons  and  Lovers 

not  aware  of  it.  He  only  knew  that  his  life  seemed  un- 
balanced, as  if  it  were  going  to  smash  into  pieces. 

Clara  did  not  know  what  was  the  matter  with  him. 
She  realized  that  he  seemed  unaware  of  her.  Even  when 
he  came  to  her  he  seemed  unaware  of  her;  always  he 
was  somewhere  else.  She  felt  she  was  clutching  for  him, 
and  he  was  somewhere  else.  It  tortured  her,  and  so  she 
tortured  him.  For  a  month  at  a  time  she  kept  him  at 
arm's  length.  He  almost  hated  her,  and  was  driven  to 
her  in  spite  of  himself.  He  went  mostly  into  the  com- 
pany of  men,  was  always  at  the  George  or  the  White 
Horse.  His  mother  was  ill,  distant,  quiet,  shadowy.  He 
was  terrified  of  something;  he  dared  not  look  at  her. 
Her  eyes  seemed  to  grow  darker,  her  face  more  waxen; 
still  she  dragged  about  at  her  work. 

At  Whitsuntide  he  said  he  would  go  to  Blackpool  for 
four  days  with  his  friend  Newton.  The  latter  was  a 
big,  jolly  fellow,  with  a  touch  of  the  bounder  about  him. 
Paul  said  his  mother  must  go  to  Sheffield  to  stay  a  week 
with  Annie,  who  lived  there.  Perhaps  the  change  would 
do  her  good.  Mrs.  Morel  was  attending  a  woman's  doctor 
in  Nottingham.  He  said  her  heart  and  her  digestion 
were  wrong.  She  consented  to  go  to  Sheffield,  though 
she  did  not  want  to;  but  now  she  would  do  everything 
her  son  wished  of  her.  Paul  said  he  would  come  for  her 
on  the  fifth  day,  and  stay  also  in  Sheffield  till  the  holiday 
was  up.  It  was  agreed. 

The  two  young  men  set  off  gaily  for  Blackpool.  Mrs. 
Morel  was  quite  lively  as  Paul  kissed  her  and  left  her. 
Once  at  the  station,  he  forgot  everything.  Four  days 
were  clear  —  not  an  anxiety,  not  a  thought.  The  two 
young  men  simply  enjoyed  themselves.  Paul  was  like 
another  man.  None  of  himself  remained  —  no  Clara,  no 
Miriam,  no  mother  that  fretted  him.  He  wrote  to  them 
all,  and  long  letters  to  his  mother;  but  they  were  jolly- 
letters  that  made  her  laugh.  He  was  having  a  good 
time,  as  young  fellows  will  in  a  place  like  Blackpool. 
And  underneath  it  all  was  a  shadow  for  her. 


Baxter  Dawes  455 

Paul  was  very  gay,  excited  at  the  thought  of  staying 
with  his  mother  in  Sheffield.  Newton  was  to  spend  the 
day  with  them.  Their  train  was  late.  Joking,  laughing, 
with  their  pipes  between  their  teeth,  the  young  men  swung 
their  bags  on  to  the  tram-car.  Paul  had  bought  his 
mother  a  little  collar  of  real  lace  that  he  wanted  to 
see  her  wear,  so  that  he  could  tease  her  about  it. 

Annie  lived  in  a  nice  house,  and  had  a  little  maid. 
Paul  ran  gaily  up  the  steps.  He  expected  his  mother 
laughing  in  the  hall,  but  it  was  Annie  who  opened  to 
him.  She  seemed  distant  to  him.  He  stood  a  second  in 
dismay.  Annie  let  him  kiss  her  cheek. 

"  Is  my  mother  ill  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes ;    she  's  not  very  well.     Don't  upset  her." 

«  Is  she  in  bed?  " 

"  Yes." 

And  then  the  queer  feeling  went  over  him,  as  if  all 
the  sunshine  had  gone  out  of  him,  and  it  was  all  shadow. 
He  dropped  the  bag  and  ran  upstairs.  Hesitating,  he 
opened  the  door.  His  mother  sat  up  in  bed,  wearing  a 
dressing-gown  of  old  rose  colour.  She  looked  at  him 
almost  as  if  she  were  ashamed  of  herself,  pleading  to 
him,  humble.  He  saw  the  ashy  look  about  her. 

"Mother!"  he  said. 

"  I  thought  you  were  never  coming,"  she  answered 
gaily. 

But  he  only  fell  on  his  knees  at  the  bedside,  and  buried 
his  face  in  the  bedclothes,  crying  in  agony,  and  saying: 

"  Mother  —  mother  —  mother !  " 

She  stroked  his  hair  slowly  with  her  thin  hand. 

"  Don't  cry,"  she  said.     "  Don't  cry  —  it 's  nothing." 

But  he  felt  as  if  his  blood  was  melting  into  tears,  and 
he  cried  in  terror  and  pain. 

"  Don't  —  don't  cry,"  his  mother   faltered. 

Slowly  she  stroked  his  hair.  Shocked  out  of  himself, 
he  cried,  and  the  tears  hurt  in  every  fibre  of  his  body. 
Suddenly  he  stopped,  but  he  dared  not  lift  his  face  out 
of  the  bedclothes. 


456  Sons  and  Lovers 

"You  are  late.  Where  have  you  been?"  his  mother 
asked. 

"  The  train  was  late,"  he  replied,  muffled  in  the 
sheet. 

"  Yes ;    that  miserable  Central !     Is  Newton  come  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  'm  sure  you  must  be  hungry,  and  they  've  kept 
dinner  waiting." 

With  a   wrench  he  looked  up   at  her. 

"  What  is  it,  mother?  "  he  asked  brutally. 

She  averted  her  eyes  as  she  answered : 

"  Only  a  bit  of  a  tumour,  my  boy.  You  need  n't 
trouble.  It 's  been  there  —  the  lump  has  —  a  long  time." 

Up  came  the  tears  again.  His  mind  was  clear  and 
hard,  but  his  body  was  crying. 

"Where?"  he  said. 

She  put  her  hand  on  her  side. 

"  Here.    But  you  know  they  can  sweal  a  tumour  away." 

He  stood  feeling  dazed  and  helpless,  like  a  child.  He 
thought  perhaps  it  was  as  she  said.  Yes;  he  reassured 
himself  it  was  so.  But  all  the  while  his  blood  and  his 
body  knew  definitely  what  it  was.  He  sat  down  on  the 
bed,  and  took  her  hand.  She  had  never  had  but  the  one 
ring  —  her  wedding-ring. 

"  When  were  you  poorly  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  It  was  yesterday  it  began,"  she  answered  sub- 
missively. 

"  Pains !  " 

"  Yes ;  but  not  more  than  I  've  often  had  at  home.  I 
believe  Dr.  Ansell  is  an  alarmist." 

"  You  ought  not  to  have  travelled  alone,"  he  said,  to 
himself  more  than  to  her. 

"  As  if  that  had  anything  to  do  with  it ! "  she  answered 
quickly. 

They  were  silent  for  a  while. 

"  Now  go  and  have  your  dinner,"  she  said.  "  You 
must  be  hungry." 

"Have  you  had  yours?" 


Baxter  Dawes  457 

"  Yes ;   a  beautiful  sole  I  had.     Annie  is  good  to  me." 

They  talked  a  little  while,  then  he  went  downstairs. 
He  was  very  white  and  strained.  Newton  sat  in  miserable 
sympathy. 

After  dinner  he  went  into  the  scullery  to  help  Annie 
to  wash  up.  The  little  maid  had  gone  on  an  errand. 

"  Is  it  really  a  tumour?  "  he  asked. 

Annie  began  to  cry  again. 

"  The  pain  she  had  yesterday  —  I  never  saw  anybody 
suffer  like  it !  "  she  cried.  "  Leonard  ran  like  a  madman 
for  Dr.  Ansell,  and  when  she  'd  got  to  bed  she  said  to 
me :  '  Annie,  look  at  this  lump  on  my  side.  I  wonder 
what  it  is  ?  '  And  there  I  looked,  and  I  thought  I  should 
have  dropped.  Paul,  as  true  as  I  'm  here,  it 's  a  lump 
as  big  as  my  double  fist.  I  said :  '  Good  gracious,  mother, 
whenever  did  that  come?'  'Why,  child,'  she  said,  'it's 
been  there  a  long  time.'  I  thought  I  should  have  died, 
our  Paul,  I  did.  She 's  been  having  these  pains  for 
months  at  home,  and  nobody  looking  after  her." 

The  tears  came  to  his  eyes,  then  dried  suddenly. 

"  But  she  's  been  attending  the  doctor  in  Nottingham 
—  and  she  never  told  me,"  he  said. 

"  If  I  'd  have  been  at  home,"  said  Annie,  "  I  should 
have  seen  for  myself." 

He  felt  like  a  man  walking  in  unrealities.  In  the  after- 
noon he  went  to  see  the  doctor.  The  latter  was  a  shrewd, 
lovable  man. 

"  But  what  is  it?  "  he  said. 

The  doctor  looked  at  the  young  man,  then  knitted  his 
fingers. 

"  It  may  be  a  large  tumour  which  has  formed  in  the 
membrane,"  he  said  slowly,  "  and  which  we  may  be  able 
to  make  go  away." 

"  Can't  you  operate?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  Not  there,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"  Are  you  sure?  " 

"  Quite!  " 

Paul  meditated  a  while. 


458  Sons  and  Lovers 

"Are  you  sure  it's  a  tumour?"  he  asked.  "Why 
did  Dr.  Jameson  in  Nottingham  never  find  out  anything 
about  it?  She's  been  going  to  him  for  weeks,  and  he's 
treated  her  for  heart  and  indigestion." 

"  Mrs.  Morel  never  told  Dr.  Jameson  about  the  lump," 
said  the  doctor. 

"  And  do  you  know  it 's  a  tumour  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  sure." 

"  What  else  might  it  be  ?  You  asked  my  sister  if  there 
was  cancer  in  the  family.  Might  it  be  cancer?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  And  what  shall  you  do?  " 

"  I  should  like  an  examination,  with  Dr.  Jameson." 

"  Then  have  one." 

"  You  must  arrange  about  that.  His  fee  would  n't  be 
less  than  ten  guineas  to  come  here  from  Nottingham." 

"  When  would  you  like  him  to  come?  " 

"  I  will  call  in  this  evening,  and  we  will  talk  it  over." 

Paul  went  away,  biting  his  lip. 

His  mother  could  come  downstairs  for  tea,  the  doctor 
said.  Her  son  went  upstairs  to  help  her.  She  wore  the  old- 
rose  dressing-gown  that  Leonard  had  given  Annie,  and, 
with  a  little  colour  in  her  face,  was  quite  young  again. 

"  But  you  look  quite  pretty  in  that,"  he  said. 

"  Yes ;  they  make  me  so  fine,  I  hardly  know  myself," 
she  answered. 

But  when  she  stood  up  to  walk,  the  colour  went.  Paul 
helped  her,  half  carrying  her.  At  the  top  of  the  stairs 
she  was  gone.  He  lifted  her  up  and  carried  her  quickly 
downstairs ;  laid  her  on  the  couch.  She  was  light  and 
frail.  Her  face  looked  as  if  she  were  dead,  with  the  blue 
lips  shut  tight.  Her  eyes  opened  —  her  blue,  unfailing 
eyes  —  and  she  looked  at  him  pleadingly,  almost  wanting 
him  to  forgive  her.  He  held  brandy  to  her  lips,  but  her 
mouth  would  not  open.  All  the  time  she  watched  him  lov- 
ingly. She  was  only  sorry  for  him.  The  tears  ran  down 
his  face  without  ceasing,  but  not  a  muscle  moved.  He  was 
intent  on  getting  a  little  brandy  between  her  lips.  Soon 


Baxter  Dawes  459 

she  was  able  to  swallow  a  teaspoonful.  She  lay  back,  so 
tired.  The  tears  continued  to  run  down  his  face. 

"  But,"  she  panted,  "  it  '11  go  off.    Don't  cry !  " 

"  I  'm  not  doing,"  he  said. 

After  a  while  she  was  better  again.  He  was  kneeling 
beside  the  couch.  They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  make  a  trouble  of  it,"  she  said. 

"  No,  mother.  You  '11  have  to  be  quite  still,  and  then 
you  '11  get  better  soon." 

But  he  was  white  to  the  lips,  and  their  eyes  as  they 
looked  at  each  other  understood.  Her  eyes  were  so  blue 
—  such  a  wonderful  forget-me-not  blue !  He  felt  if  only 
they  had  been  of  a  different  colour  he  could  have  borne  it 
better.  His  heart  seemed  to  be  ripping  slowly  in  his 
breast.  He  kneeled  there,  holding  her  hand,  and  neither 
said  anything.  Then  Annie  came  in. 

"  Are  you  all  right  ?  "  she  murmured  timidly  to  her 
mother. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

Paul  sat  down  and  told  her  about  Blackpool.  She  was 
curious. 

A  day  or  two  after,  he  went  to  see  Dr.  Jameson  in  Not- 
tingham, to  arrange  for  a  consultation.  Paul  had  practi- 
cally no  money  in  the  world.  But  he  could  borrow. 

His  mother  had  been  used  to  go  to  the  public  consulta- 
tion on  Saturday  morning,  when  she  could  see  the  doctor 
for  only  a  nominal  sum.  Her  son  went  on  the  same  day. 
The  waiting-room  was  full  of  poor  women,  who  sat  pa- 
tiently on  a  bench  around  the  wall.  Paul  thought  of  his 
mother,  in  her  little  black  costume,  sitting  waiting  like- 
wise. The  doctor  was  late.  The  women  all  looked  rather 
frightened.  Paul  asked  the  nurse  in  attendance  if  he 
could  see  the  doctor  immediately  he  came.  It  was  ar- 
ranged so.  The  women  sitting  patiently  round  the  walls 
of  the  room  eyed  the  young  man  curiously. 

At  last  the  doctor  came.  He  was  about  forty,  good- 
looking,  brown-skinned.  His  wife  had  died,  and  he,  who 
had  loved  her,  had  specialized  on  women's  ailments.  Paul 


460  Sons  and  Lovers 

told  his  name  and  his  mother's.  The  doctor  did  not 
remember. 

"Number  forty-six  M.,"  said  the  nurse;  and  the  doc- 
tor looked  up  the  case  in  his  book. 

"  There  is  a  big  lump  that  may  be  a  tumour,"  said 
Paul.  "  But  Dr.  Ansell  was  going  to  write  you  a  letter." 

"  Ah,  yes !  "  replied  the  doctor,  drawing  the  letter  from 
his  pocket.  He  was  very  friendly,  affable,  busy,  kind.  He 
would  come  to  Sheffield  the  next  day. 

"  What  is  your  father?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  is  a  coal-miner,"  replied  Paul. 

"  Not  very  well  off,  I  suppose?  " 

"  This  —  I  see  after  this,"  said  Paul. 

"  And  you?  "  smiled  the  doctor. 

"  I  am  a  clerk  in  Jordan's  Appliance  Factory." 

The  doctor  smiled  at  him. 

"  Er  —  to  go  to  Sheffield !  "  he  said,  putting  the  tips  of 
his  fingers  together,  and  smiling  with  his  eyes.  "  Eight 
guineas?  " 

"  Thank  you !  "  said  Paul,  flushing  and  rising.  "  And 
you  '11  come  to-morrow?  " 

"  To-morrow  —  Sunday?  Yes !  Can  you  tell  me  about 
what  time  there  is  a  train  in  the  afternoon?  " 

"  There  is  a  Central  gets  in  at  four-fifteen." 

"  And  will  there  be  any  way  of  getting  up  to  the  house? 
Shall  I  have  to  walk?  "  The  doctor  smiled. 

"  There  is  the  tram,"  said  Paul;  "the  Western  Park 
tram." 

The  doctor  made  a  note  of  it. 

"  Thank  you !  "  he  said,  and  shook  hands. 

Then  Paul  went  on  home  to  see  his  father,  who  was 
left  in  the  charge  of  Minnie.  Walter  Morel  was  getting 
very  grey  now.  Paul  found  him  digging  in  the  garden. 
He  had  written  him  a  letter.  He  shook  hands  with  his 
father. 

"  Hello,  son!    Tha  has  landed,  then?  "  said  the  father. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  son.  "  But  I  'm  going  back  to- 
night." 


Baxter  Dawes  461 

"  Are  ter,  beguy !  "  exclaimed  the  collier.  "  An'  has  ter 
eaten  owt?  " 

"  No." 

"  That 's  just  like  me,"  said  Morel.  "  Come  thy  ways 
in." 

The  father  was  afraid  of  the  mention  of  his  wife.  The 
two  went  indoors.  Paul  ate  in  silence;  his  father,  with 
earthy  hands,  and  sleeves  rolled  up,  sat  in  the  arm-chair 
opposite  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Well,  an'  how  is  she  ?  "  asked  the  miner  at  length,  in 
a  little  voice. 

"  She  can  sit  up ;  she  can  be  carried  down  for  tea," 
said  Paul. 

"  That 's  a  blessin' !  "  exclaimed  Morel.  "  I  hope  we 
s'll  soon  be  havin'  her  whoam,  then.  An'  what 's  that 
Nottingham  doctor  say?  " 

"  He  's  going  to-morrow  to  have  an  examination  of  her." 

"  Is  he,  beguy !    That 's  a  tidy  penny,  I  'm  thinkin' !  " 

"  Eight  guineas." 

"  Eight  guineas !  "  The  miner  spoke  breathlessly. 
"  Well,  we  mun  find  it  from  somewhere." 

"  I  can  pay  that,"  said  Paul. 

There  was  a  silence  between  them  for  some  time. 

"  She  says  she  hopes  you  're  getting  on  all  right  with 
Minnie,"  Paul  said. 

"  Yes,  I  'm  all  right,  an'  I  wish  as  she  was,"  answered 
Morel.  "  But  Minnie 's  a  good  little  wench,  bless  'er 
heart !  "  He  sat  looking  dismal. 

"  I  s'll  have  to  be  going  at  half-past  three,"  said  Paul. 

"  It 's  a  trapse  for  thee,  lad !  Eight  guineas !  An' 
when  dost  think  she  '11  be  able  to  get  as  far  as  this  ?  " 

"  We  must  see  what  the  doctors  say  to-morrow,"  Paul 
said. 

Morel  sighed  deeply.  The  house  seemed  strangely 
empty,  and  Paul  thought  his  father  looked  lost,  forlorn, 
and  old. 

"  You  '11  have  to  go  and  see  her  next  week,  father,"  he 
said. 


462  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  I  hope  she  '11  be  a-whoam  by  that  time,"  said  Morel. 

"  If  she  's  not,"  said  Paul,  "  then  you  must  come." 

"  I  dunno  wheer  I  s'll  find  th'  money,"  said  Morel. 

"  And  I  '11  write  to  you  what  the  doctor  says,"  said 
Paul. 

"  But  tha  writes  i'  such  a  fashion,  I  canna  ma'e  it  out," 
said  Morel. 

"  Well,  I  '11  write  plain." 

It  was  no  good  asking  Morel  to  answer,  for  he  could 
scarcely  do  more  than  write  his  own  name. 

The  doctor  came.  Leonard  felt  it  his  duty  to  meet 
him  with  a  cab.  The  examination  did  not  take  long. 
Annie,  Arthur,  Paul,  and  Leonard  were  waiting  in  the 
parlour  anxiously.  The  doctors  came  down.  Paul  glanced 
at  them.  He  had  never  had  any  hope,  except  when  he 
had  deceived  himself. 

"  It  may  be  a  tumour ;  we  must  wait  and  see,"  said  Dr. 
Jameson. 

"  And  if  it  is,"  said  Annie,  "  can  you  sweal  it  away?  " 

"  Probably,"  said  the  doctor. 

Paul  put  eight  sovereigns  and  a  half  sovereign  on  the 
table.  The  doctor  counted  them,  took  a  florin  out  of  his 
purse,  and  put  that  down. 

"  Thank  you !  "  he  said.  "  I  'm  sorry  Mrs.  Morel  is  so 
ill.  But  we  must  see  what  we  can  do." 

"  There  can't  be  an  operation?  "  said  Paul. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  and  even  if  there  could,  her  heart 
would  n't  stand  it." 

"  Is  her  heart  risky?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  Yes  ;   you  must  be  careful  with  her." 

"Very  risky?" 

""No  —  er  —  no,  no  !    Just  take  care." 

And  the  doctor  was  gone. 

Then  Paul  carried  his  mother  downstairs.  She  lay 
simply,  like  a  child.  But  when  he  was  on  the  stairs,  she 
put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  clinging. 

"  I  'm  so  frightened  of  these  beastly  stairs,"  she  said. 


Baxter  Dawes  463 

And  he  was  frightened,  too.  He  would  let  Leonard  do 
it  another  time.  He  felt  he  could  not  carry  her. 

"  He  thinks  it 's  only  a  tumour !  "  cried  Annie  to  her 
mother.  "  And  he  can  sweal  it  away." 

"  I  knew  he  could,"  protested  Mrs.  Morel  scornfully. 

She  pretended  not  to  notice  that  Paul  had  gone  out  of 
the  room.  He  sat  in  the  kitchen,  smoking.  Then  he  tried 
to  brush  some  grey  ash  off  his  coat.  He  looked  again. 
It  was  one  of  his  mother's  grey  hairs.  It  was  so  long! 
He  held  it  up,  and  it  drifted  into  the  chimney.  He  let 
go.  The  long  grey  hair  floated  and  was  gone  in  the  black- 
ness of  the  chimney. 

The  next  day  he  kissed  her  before  going  back  to  work. 
It  was  very  early  in  the  morning,  and  they  were  alone. 

"  You  won't  fret,  my  boy !  "  she  said. 

"  No,  mother." 

"  No ;  it  would  be  silly.    And  take  care  of  yourself." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  Then,  after  a  while :  "  And  I 
shall  come  next  Saturday,  and  shall  I  bring  my 
father?" 

"  I  suppose  he  wants  to  come,"  she  replied.  "  At  any 
rate,  if  he  does  you  '11  have  to  let  him." 

He  kissed  her  again,  and  stroked  the  hair  from  her  tem- 
ples, gently,  tenderly,  as  if  she  were  a  lover. 

"  Shan't  you  be  late?  "  she  murmured. 

"  I  'm  going,"  he  said,  very  low. 

Still  he  sat  a  few  minutes,  stroking  the  brown  and  grey 
hair  from  her  temples. 

"  And  you  won't  be  any  worse,  mother?  " 

"  No,  my  son." 

"  You  promise  me?  " 

"  Yes ;   I  won't  be  any  worse." 

He  kissed  her,  held  her  in  his  arms  for  a  moment,  and 
was  gone.  In  the  early  sunny  morning  he  ran  to  the 
station,  crying  all  the  way;  he  did  not  know  what  for. 
And  her  blue  eyes  were  wide  and  staring  as  she  thought  of 
him. 

In  the  afternoon  he  went  a  walk  with  Clara.    They  sat 


464  Sons  and  Lovers 

in  the  little  wood  where  bluebells  were  standing.  He  took 
her  hand. 

"  You  '11  see,"  he  said  to  Clara,  "  she  '11  never  be  better." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know !  "  replied  the  other. 

"  I  do,"  he  said. 

She  caught  him  impulsively  to  her  breast. 

"  Try  and  forget  it,  dear,"  she  said ;  "  try  and  for- 
get it." 

"  I  will,"  he  answered. 

Her  breast  was  there,  warm  for  him ;  her  hands  were  in 
his  hair.  It  was  comforting,  and  he  held  his  arms  round 
her.  But  he  did  not  forget.  He  only  talked  to  Clara  of 
something  else.  And  it  was  always  so.  When  she  felt  it 
coming,  the  agony,  she  cried  to  him: 

"Don't  think  of  it,  Paul!  Don't  think  of  it,  my 
darling!" 

And  she  pressed  him  to  her  breast,  rocked  him,  soothed 
him  like*  a  child.  So  he  put  the  trouble  aside  for  her  sake, 
to  take  it  up  again  immediately  he  was  alone.  All  the 
time,  as  he  went  about,  he  cried  mechanically.  His  mind 
and  hands  were  busy.  He  cried,  he  did  not  know  why. 
It  was  his  blood  weeping.  He  was  just  as  much  alone 
whether  he  was  with  Clara  or  with  the  men  in  the  White 
Horse.  Just  himself  and  this  pressure  inside  him,  that 
was  all  that  existed.  He  read  sometimes.  He  had  to 
keep  his  mind  occupied.  And  Clara  was  a  way  of  occu- 
pying his  mind. 

On  the  Saturday  Walter  Morel  went  to  Sheffield.  He 
was  a  forlorn  figure,  looking  rather  as  if  nobody  owned 
him.  Paul  ran  upstairs. 

"  My  father  's  come,"  he  said,  kissing  his  mother. 

"  Has  he?  "  she  answered  weariedly. 

The  old  collier  came  rather  frightened  into  the  bed- 
room. 

"  How  dun  I  find  thee,  lass?  "  he  said,  going  forward 
and  kissing  her  in  a  hasty,  timid  fashion. 

"  Well,  I  'm  middlin',"  she  replied. 

"  I  see  tha  art,"  he  said.     He  stood  looking  down  on 


Baxter  Dawes  465 

her.  Then  he  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief.  Help- 
less, and  as  if  nobody  owned  him,  he  looked. 

"  Have  you  gone  on  all  right?  "  asked  the  wife,  rather 
wearily,  as  if  it  were  an  effort  to  talk  to  him. 

"  Yis,"  he  answered.  "  'Er  's  a  bit  behint-hand  now  and 
again,  as  yer  might  expect." 

"  Does  she  have  your  dinner  ready?  "  asked  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  Well,  I  've  'ad  to  shout  at  'er  once  or  twice,"  he  said. 

"  And  you  must  shout  at  her  if  she  's  not  ready.  She 
will  leave  things  to  the  last  minute." 

She  gave  him  a  few  instructions.  He  sat  looking  at  her 
as  if  she  were  almost  a  stranger  to  him,  before  whom  he 
was  awkward  and  humble,  and  also  as  if  he  had  lost  his 
presence  of  mind,  and  wanted  to  run.  This  feeling  that 
he  wanted  to  run  away,  that  he  was  on  thorns  to  be  gone 
from  so  trying  a  situation,  and  yet  must  linger  because  it 
looked  better,  made  his  presence  so  trying.  He  put  up  his 
eyebrows  for  misery,  and  clenched  his  fists  on  his  knees, 
feeling  so  awkward  in  presence  of  a  big  trouble. 

Mrs.  Morel  did  not  change  much.  She  stayed  in  Shef- 
field for  two  months.  If  anything,  at  the  end  she  was 
rather  worse.  But  she  wanted  to  go  home.  Annie  had 
her  children.  Mrs.  Morel  wanted  to  go  home.  So  they 
got  a  motor-car  from  Nottingham  —  for  she  was  too  ill 
to  go  by  train  —  and  she  was  driven  through  the  sun- 
shine. It  was  just  August;  everything  was  bright  and 
warm.  Under  the  blue  sky  they  could  all  see  she  was 
dying.  Yet  she  was  jollier  than  she  had  been  for  weeks. 
They  all  laughed  and  talked. 

"  Annie,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  saw  a  lizard  dart  on  that 
rock!" 

Her  eyes  were  so  quick ;   she  was  still  so  full  of  life. 

Morel  knew  she  was  coming.  He  had  the  front-door 
open.  Everybody  was  on  tiptoe.  Half  the  street  turned 
out.  They  heard  the  sound  of  the  great  motor-car.  Mrs. 
Morel,  smiling,  drove  home  down  the  street. 

"  And  just  look  at  them  all  come  out  to  see  me! "  she 
said.  "  But  there,  I  suppose  I  should  have  done  the  same. 


466  Sons  and  Lovers 

How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Matthews?  How  are  you,  Mrs. 
Harrison?  " 

They  none  of  them  could  hear,  but  they  saw  her  smile 
and  nod.  And  they  all  saw  death  on  her  face,  they  said. 
It  was  a  great  event  in  the  street. 

Morel  wanted  to  carry  her  indoors,  but  he  was  too  old. 
Arthur  took  her  as  if  she  were  a  child.  They  had  set  her 
a  big,  deep  chair  by  the  hearth  where  her  rocking-chair 
used  to  stand.  When  she  was  unwrapped  and  seated,  and 
had  drunk  a  little  brandy,  she  looked  round  the  room. 

"  Don't  think  I  did  n't  like  your  house,  Annie,"  she  said ; 
"  but  it 's  nice  to  be  in  my  own  home  again." 

And  Morel  answered  huskily : 

"  It  is,  lass,  it  is." 

And  Minnie,  the  little  quaint  maid,  said  : 

"  An'  we  glad  t'  'ave  yer." 

There  was  a  lovely  yellow  ravel  of  sunflowers  in  the 
garden.  She  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  There  are  my  sunflowers !  "  she  said. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

THE    RELEASE 

BY  the  way,"  said  Dr.  Ansell  one  evening  when  Morel 
was  in  Sheffield,  "  we  've  got  a  man  in  the  fever  hos- 
pital here  who  comes  from  Nottingham  —  Dawes.  He 
does  n't  seem  to  have  many  belongings  in  this  world." 

"  Baxter  Dawes !  "  Paul  exclaimed. 

"  That 's  the  man  —  has  been  a  fine  fellow,  physically, 
I  should  think.  Been  in  a  bit  of  a  mess  lately.  You  know 
him?" 

"  He  used  to  work  at  the  place  where  I  am." 

"  Did  he  ?  Do  you  know  anything  about  him  ?  He  's 
just  sulking,  or  he  'd  be  a  lot  better  than  he  is  by  now." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  of  his  home  circumstances,  ex- 
cept that  he  's  separated  from  his  wife  and  has  been  a  bit 
down,  I  believe.  But  tell  him  about  me,  will  you?  Tell 
him  I  '11  come  and  see  him." 

The  next  time  Morel  saw  the  doctor  he  said : 

"  And  what  about  Dawes?  " 

"  I  said  to  him,"  answered  the  other,  "  *  Do  you  know 
a  man  from  Nottingham  named  Morel?  '  and  he  looked 
at  me  as  if  he  'd  jump  at  my  throat.  So  I  said,  '  I  see 
you  know  the  name ;  it 's  Paul  Morel.'  Then  I  told  him 
about  your  saying  you  would  go  and  see  him.  6  What  does 
he  want?  '  he  said,  as  if  you  were  a  policeman." 

"  And  did  he  say  he  would  see  me?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  He  would  n't  say  anything  —  good,  bad,  or  indiffer- 
ent," replied  the  doctor. 

"Why  not?" 

"  That 's  what  I  want  to  know.  There  he  lies  and  sulks, 
day  in,  day  out.  Can't  get  a  word  of  information  out 
of  him." 


468  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Do  you  think  I  might  go  ?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  You  might." 

There  was  a  feeling  of  connection  between  the  rival  men, 
more  than  ever  since  they  had  fought.  In  a  way  Morel 
felt  guilty  towards  the  other,  and  more  or  less  responsible. 
And  being  in  such  a  state  of  soul  himself,  he  felt  an  almost 
painful  nearness  to  Dawes,  who  was  suffering  and  despair- 
ing, too.  Besides,  they  had  met  in  a  naked  extremity  of 
hate,  and  it  was  a  bond.  At  any  rate,  the  elemental  man 
in  each  had  met. 

He  went  down  to  the  isolation  hospital,  with  Dr. 
AnselPs  card.  The  sister,  a  healthy  young  Irishwoman, 
led  him  down  the  ward. 

"  A  visitor  to  see  you,  Jim  Crow,"  she  said. 

Dawes  turned  over  suddenly  with  a  startled  grunt. 

"  Eh?  " 

"  Caw!  "  she  mocked.  "  He  can  only  say  <  Caw! '  I 
have  brought  you  a  gentleman  to  see  you.  Now  say 
'  Thank  you,'  and  show  some  manners." 

Dawes  looked  swiftly  with  his  dark,  startled  eyes  be- 
yond the  sister  at  Paul.  His  look  was  full  of  fear,  mis- 
trust, hate,  and  misery.  Morel  met  the  swift,  dark  eyes, 
and  hesitated.  The  two  men  were  afraid  of  the  naked 
selves  they  had  been. 

"  Dr.  Ansell  told  me  you  were  here,"  said  Morel,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand. 

Dawes  mechanically  shook  hands. 

"  So  I  thought  I  'd  come  in,"  continued  Paul. 

There  was  no  answer.  Dawes  lay  staring  at  the  oppo- 
site wall. 

"  Say  *  Caw ! '  "  mocked  the  nurse.  "  Say  *  Caw ! '  Jim 
Crow." 

"  He  is  getting  on  all  right?  "  said  Paul  to  her. 

"  Oh  yes !  He  lies  and  imagines  he  's  going  to  die," 
said  the  nurse,  "  and  it  frightens  every  word  out  of  his 
mouth." 

"  And  you  must  have  somebody  to  talk  to,"  laughed 
Morel. 


The  Release  469 

"  That 's  it !  "  laughed  the  nurse.  "  Only  two  old  men 
and  a  boy  who  always  cries.  It  is  hard  lines !  Here  am  I 
dying  to  hear  Jim  Crow's  voice,  and  nothing  but  an  odd 
6  Caw !  '  will  he  give !  " 

"  So  rough  on  you !  "  said  Morel. 

"  Is  n't  it?  "  said  the  nurse. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  a  godsend,"  he  laughed. 

"  Oh,  dropped  straight  from  heaven !  "  laughed  the 
nurse. 

Presently  she  left  the  two  men  alone.  Dawes  was  thin- 
ner, and  handsome  again,  but  life  seemed  low  in  him.  As 
the  doctor  said,  he  was  lying  sulking,  and  would  not  move 
forward  towards  convalescence.  He  seemed  to  grudge 
every  beat  of  his  heart. 

"  Have  you  had  a  bad  time  ?  "  asked  Paul. 

Suddenly  again  Dawes  looked  at  him. 

"  What  are  you  doin'  in  Sheffield?  "  he  asked. 

"  My  mother  was  taken  ill  at  my  sister's  in  Thurston 
Street.  What  are  you  doing  here?  " 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  ?  "  Morel  asked. 

"  I  could  n't  say  for  sure,"  Dawes  answered  grudgingly. 

He  lay  staring  across  at  the  wall  opposite,  as  if  trying 
to  believe  Morel  was  not  there.  Paul  felt  his  heart  go 
hard  and  angry. 

"  Dr.  Ansell  told  me  you  were  here,"  he  said  coldly. 

The  other  man  did  not  answer. 

"  Typhoid  's  pretty  bad,  I  know,"  Morel  persisted. 

Suddenly  Dawes  said : 

"  What  did  you  come  for?  " 

"  Because  Dr.  Ansell  said  you  did  n't  know  anybody 
here.  Do  you?  " 

"  I  know  nobody  nowhere,"  said  Dawes. 

"  Well,"  said  Paul,  "  it 's  because  you  don't  choose  to, 
then." 

There  was  another  silence. 

"  We  s'll  be  taking  my  mother  home  as  soon  as  we  can," 
said  Paul. 


470  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  What 's  a-matter  with  her?  "  asked  Dawes,  with  a 
sick  man's  interest  in  illness. 

"  She  's  got  a  cancer." 

There  was  another  silence. 

"  But  we  want  to  get  her  home,"  said  Paul.  "  We  s'll 
have  to  get  a  motor-car." 

Dawes  lay  thinking. 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  Thomas  Jordan  to  lend  you  his  ?  " 
said  Dawes. 

"  It 's  not  big  enough,"  Morel  answered. 

Dawes  blinked  his  dark  eyes  as  he  lay  thinking. 

"  Then  ask  Jack  Pilkington ;  he  'd  lend  it  you.  You 
know  him." 

"  I  think  I  s'll  hire  one,"  said  Paul. 

"  You  're  a  fool  if  you  do,"  said  Dawes. 

The  sick  man  was  gaunt  and  handsome  again.  Paul 
was  sorry  for  him  because  his  eyes  looked  so  tired. 

"  Did  you  get  a  j  ob  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  was  only  here  a  day  or  two  before  I  was  taken  bad," 
Dawes  replied. 

"  You  want  to  get  in  a  convalescent  home,"  said  Paul. 

The  other's  face  clouded  again. 

"  I  'm  goin'  in  no  convalescent  home,"  he  said. 

"  My  father 's  been  in  the  one  at  Seathorpe,  an'  he 
liked  it.  Dr.  Ansell  would  get  you  a  recommend." 

Dawes  lay  thinking.  It  was  evident  he  dared  not  face 
the  world  again. 

"  The  seaside  would  be  all  right  just  now,"  Morel  said. 
"  Sun  on  those  sandhills,  and  the  waves  not  far  out." 

The  other  did  not  answer. 

"  By  Gad !  "  Paul  concluded,  too  miserable  to  bother 
much ;  "  it 's  all  right  when  you  know  you  're  going  to 
walk  again,  and  swim !  " 

Dawes  glanced  at  him  quickly.  The  man's  dark  eyes 
were  afraid  to  meet  any  other  eyes  in  the  world.  But 
the  real  misery  and  helplessness  in  Paul's  tone  gave  him 
a  feeling  of  relief. 

"  Is  she  far  gone  ?  "  he  asked. 


The  Release  471 

"  She  's  going  like  wax,"  Paul  answered ;  "  but  cheerful 
—  lively!" 

He  bit  his  lip.    After  a  minute  he  rose. 

"  Well,  I  '11  be  going,"  he  said.  "  I  '11  leave  you  this 
halfcrown." 

"  I  don't  want  it,"  Dawes  muttered. 

Morel  did  not  answer,  but  left  the  coin  on  the  table. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  '11  try  and  run  in  when  I  'm  back 
in  Sheffield.  Happen  you  might  like  to  see  my  brother- 
in-law?  He  works  in  Pyecrofts." 

"  I  don't  know  him,"  said  Dawes. 

"  He  's  all  right.  Should  I  tell  him  to  come?  He  might 
bring  you  some  papers  to  look  at." 

The  other  man  did  not  answer.  Paul  went.  The  strong 
emotion  that  Dawes  aroused  in  him,  repressed,  made  him 
shiver. 

He  did  not  tell  his  mother,  but  next  day  he  spoke  to 
Clara  about  this  interview.  It  was  in  the  dinner-hour. 
The  two  did  not  often  go  out  together  now,  but  this  day 
he  asked  her  to  go  with  him  to  the  Castle  grounds.  There 
they  sat  while  the  scarlet  geraniums  and  the  yellow  calceo- 
larias blazed  in  the  sunlight.  She  was  now  always  rather 
protective,  and  rather  resentful  towards  him. 

"  Did  you  know  Baxter  was  in  Sheffield  Hospital  with 
typhoid?  "  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  with  startled  grey  eyes,  and  her  face 
went  pale. 

"  No,"  she  said,  frightened. 

"  He  's  getting  better.  I  went  to  see  him  yesterday  — 
the  doctor  told  me." 

Clara  seemed  stricken  by  the  news. 

"  Is  he  very  bad  ?  "  she  asked  guiltily. 

"  He  has  been.     He  's  mending  now." 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing !     He  seems  to  be  sulking." 

There  was  a  distance  between  the  two  of  them.  He  gave 
her  more  information. 

She  went  about  shut  up  and  silent.    The  next  time  they 


472  Sons  and  Lovers 

took  a  walk  together,  she  disengaged  herself  from  his  arm, 
and  walked  at  a  distance  from  him.  He  was  wanting  her 
comfort  badly. 

"  Won't  you  be  nice  with  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  What 's  the  matter?  "  he  said,  putting  his  arm  across 
her  shoulder. 

"  Don't !  "  she  said,  disengaging  herself. 

He  left  her  alone,  and  returned  to  his  own  brooding. 

"  Is  it  Baxter  that  upsets  you?  "  he  asked  at  length. 

"  I  have  been  vile  to  him !  "  she  said. 

"  I  've  said  many  a  time  you  have  n't  treated  him  well," 
he  replied. 

And  there  was  a  hostility  between  them.  Each  pursued 
his  own  train  of  thought. 

"  I  've  treated  him  —  no,  I  've  treated  him  badly,"  she 
said.  "  And  now  you  treat  me  badly.  It  serves  me  right." 

"  How  do  I  treat  you  badly?  "  he  said. 

"  It  serves  me  right,"  she  repeated.  "  I  never  considered 
him  worth  having,  and  now  you  don't  consider  me.  But 
it  serves  me  right.  He  loved  me  a  thousand  times  better 
than  you  ever  did." 

"  He  did  n't !  "  protested  Paul. 

"  He  did !  At  any  rate,  he  did  respect  me,  and  that 's 
what  you  don't  do." 

"  It  looked  as  if  he  respected  you !  "  he  said. 

"  He  did !  And  I  made  him  horrid  —  I  know  I  did ! 
You  've  taught  me  that.  And  he  loved  me  a  thousand 
times  better  than  ever  you  do." 

"  All  right,"  said  Paul. 

He  only  wanted  to  be  left  alone  now.  He  had  his  own 
trouble,  which  was  almost  too  much  to  bear.  Clara  only 
tormented  him  and  made  him  tired.  He  was  not  sorry 
when  he  left  her. 

She  went  on  the  first  opportunity  to  Sheffield  to  see  her 
husband.  The  meeting  was  not  a  success.  But  she  left 
him  roses  and  fruit  and  money.  She  wanted  to  make 
restitution.  It  was  not  that  she  loved  him.  As  she  looked 


The  Release  473 

at  him  lying  there  her  heart  did  not  warm  with  love. 
Only  she  wanted  to  humble  herself  to  him,  to  kneel  before 
him.  She  wanted  now  to  be  self-sacrificial.  After  all,  she 
had  failed  to  make  Morel  really  love  her.  She  was  morally 
frightened.  She  wanted  to  do  penance.  So  she  kneeled  to 
Dawes,  and  it  gave  him  a  subtle  pleasure.  But  the  dis- 
tance between  them  was  still  very  great  —  too  great.  It 
frightened  the  man.  It  almost  pleased  the  woman.  She 
liked  to  feel  she  was  serving  him  across  an  insuperable 
distance.  She  was  proud  now. 

Morel  went  to  see  Dawes  once  or  twice.  There  was  a 
sort  of  friendship  between  the  two  men,  who  were  all  the 
while  deadly  rivals.  But  they  never  mentioned  the  woman 
who  was  between  them. 

Mrs.  Morel  got  gradually  worse.  At  first  they  used  to 
carry  her  downstairs,  sometimes  even  into  the  garden. 
She  sat  propped  in  her  chair,  smiling,  and  so  pretty. 
The  gold  wedding-ring  shone  on  her  white  hand;  her 
hair  was  carefully  brushed.  And  she  watched  the  tangled 
sunflowers  dying,  the  chrysanthemums  coming  out,  and 
the  dahlias. 

Paul  and  she  were  afraid  of  each  other.  He  knew,  and 
she  knew,  that  she  was  dying.  But  they  kept  up  a  pre- 
tence of  cheerfulness.  Every  morning,  when  he  got  up, 
he  went  into  her  room  in  his  pyjamas. 

"Did  you  sleep,  my  dear?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"Not  very  well?" 

"  Well,  yes !  " 

Then  he  knew  she  had  lain  awake.  He  saw  her  hand 
under  the  bedclothes,  pressing  the  place  on  her  side  where 
the  pain  was. 

"  Has  it  been  bad?  "  he  asked. 

"  No.    It  hurt  a  bit,  but  nothing  to  mention." 

And  she  sniffed  in  her  old  scornful  way.  As  she  lay 
she  looked  like  a  girl.  And  all  the  while  her  blue  eyes 
watched  him.  But  there  were  the  dark  pain-circles  be- 
neath that  made  him  ache  again. 


474  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  It 's  a  sunny  day,"  he  said. 

"It's  a  beautifufday." 

"  Do  you  think  you  '11  be  carried  down?  " 

"  I  shall  see." 

Then  he  went  away  to  get  her  breakfast.  All  day  long 
he  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  her.  It  was  a  long  ache 
that  made  him  feverish.  Then,  when  he  got  home  in  the 
early  evening,  he  glanced  through  the  kitchen  window. 
She  was  nqt  there;  she  had  not  got  up. 

He  ran  straight  upstairs  and  kissed  her.  He  was  al- 
most afraid  to  ask: 

"  Did  n't  you  get  up,  Pigeon?  " 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  It  was  that  morphia ;  it  made  me 
tired." 

"  I  think  he  gives  you  too  much,"  he  said. 

"  I  think  he  does,"  she  answered. 

He  sat  down  by  the  bed,  miserably.  She  had  a  way  of 
curling  and  lying  on  her  side,  like  a  child.  The  grey  and 
brown  hair  was  loose  over  her  ear. 

"  Does  n't  it  tickle  you?  "  he  said,  gently  putting  it 
back. 

"  It  does,"  she  replied. 

His  face  was  near  hers.  Her  blue  eyes  smiled  straight 
into  his,  like  a  girl's  —  warm,  laughing  with  tender  love. 
It  made  him  pant  with  terror,  agony,  and  love. 

"  You  want  your  hair  doing  in  a  plait,"  he  said.  "  Lie 
still." 

And  going  behind  her,  he  carefully  loosened  her  hair, 
brushed  it  out.  It  was  like  fine  long  silk  of  brown  and  grey. 
Her  head  was  snuggled  between  her  shoulders.  As  he 
lightly  brushed  and  plaited  her  hair,  he  bit  his  lip  and 
felt  dazed.  It  all  seemed  unreal,  he  could  not  under- 
stand it. 

At  night  he  often  worked  in  her  room,  looking  up  from 
time  to  time.  And  so  often  he  found  her  blue  eyes  fixed 
on  him.  And  when  their  eyes  met,  she  smiled.  He  worked 
away  again,  mechanically,  producing  good  stuff  without 
knowing  what  he  was  doing. 


The  Release  475 

Sometimes  he  came  in,  very  pale  and  still,  with  watchful, 
sudden  eyes,  like  a  man  who  is  drunk  almost  to  death. 
They  were  both  afraid  of  the  veils  that  were  ripping  be- 
tween them. 

Then  she  pretended  to  be  better,  chattered  to  him 
gaily,  made  a  great  fuss  over  some  scraps  of  news.  For 
they  had  both  come  to  the  condition  when  they  had  to 
make  much  of  the  trifles,  lest  they  should  give  in  to  the 
big  thing,  and  their  human  independence  would  go  smash. 
They  were  afraid,  so  they  made  light  of  things  and  were 

gay- 
Sometime  s  as  she  lay  he  knew  she  was  thinking  of  the 

past.  Her  mouth  gradually  shut  hard  in  a  line.  She  was 
holding  herself  rigid,  so  that  she  might  die  without  ever 
uttering  the  great  cry  that  was  tearing  from  her.  He 
never  forgot  that  hard,  utterly  lonely  and  stubborn  clench- 
ing of  her  mouth,  which  persisted  for  weeks.  Sometimes, 
when  it  was  lighter,  she  talked  about  her  husband.  Now 
she  hated  him.  She  did  not  forgive  him.  She  could  not 
bear  him  to  be  in  the  room.  And  a  few  things,  the  things 
that  had  been  most  bitter  to  her,  came  up  again  so 
strongly  that  they  broke  from  her,  and  she  told  her  son. 

He  felt  as  if  his  life  were  being  destroyed,  piece  by 
piece,  within  him.  Often  the  tears  came  suddenly.  He  ran 
to  the  station,  the  tear-drops  falling  on  the  pavement. 
Often  he  could  not  go  on  with  his  work.  The  pen  stopped 
writing.  He  sat  staring,  quite  unconscious.  And  when 
he  came  round  again  he  felt  sick,  and  trembled  in  his 
limbs.  He  never  questioned  what  it  was.  His  mind  did 
not  try  to  analyze  or  understand.  He  merely  submitted, 
and  kept  his  eyes  shut;  let  the  thing  go  over  him. 

His  mother  did  the  same.  She  thought  of  the  pain,  of 
the  morphia,  of  the  next  day;  hardly  ever  of  the  death. 
That  was  coming,  she  knew.  She  had  to  submit  to  it. 
But  she  would  never  entreat  it  or  make  friends  with  it. 
Blind,  with  her  face  shut  hard  and  blind,  she  was  pushed 
towards  the  door.  The  days  passed,  the  weeks,  the 
months. 


476  Sons  and  Lovers 

Sometimes,  in  the  sunny  afternoons,  she  seemed  almost 
happy. 

"  I  try  to  think  of  the  nice  times  —  when  we  went  to 
Mablethorpe,  and  Robin  Hood's  Bay,  and  Shanklin,"  she 
said.  "  After  all,  not  everybody  has  seen  those  beautiful 
places.  And  was  n't  it  beautiful !  I  try  to  think  of  that, 
not  of  the  other  things." 

Then,  again,  for  a  whole  evening  she  spoke  not  a  word ; 
neither  did  he.  They  were  together,  rigid,  stubborn, 
silent.  He  went  into  his  room  at  last  to  go  to  bed,  and 
leaned  against  the  doorway  as  if  paralyzed,  unable  to 
go  any  farther.  His  consciousness  went.  A  furious  storm, 
he  knew  not  what,  seemed  to  ravage  inside  him.  He  stood 
leaning  there,  submitting,  never  questioning. 

In  the  morning  they  were  both  normal  again,  though 
her  face  was  grey  with  the  morphia,  and  her  body  felt 
like  ash.  But  they  were  bright  again,  nevertheless.  Often, 
especially  if  Annie  or  Arthur  were  at  home,  he  neglected 
her.  He  did  not  see  much  of  Clara.  Usually  he  was  with 
men.  He  was  quick  and  active  and  lively;  but  when  his 
friends  saw  him  go  white  to  the  gills,  his  eyes  dark  and 
glittering,  they  had  a  certain  mistrust  of  him.  Some- 
times he  went  with  Clara,  but  she  was  almost  cold  to  him. 

"  Take  me !  "  he  said  simply. 

Occasionally  she  would.  But  she  was  afraid.  When  he 
had  her  then,  there  was  something  in  it  that  made  her 
shrink  away  from  him  —  something  unnatural.  She  grew 
to  dread  him.  He  was  so  quiet,  yet  so  strange.  She  was 
afraid  of  the  man  who  was  not  there  with  her,  whom  she 
could  feel  behind  this  make-belief  lover ;  somebody  sinister, 
that  filled  her  with  horror.  She  began  to  have  a  kind 
of  horror  of  him.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  were  a  criminal. 
He  wanted  her  —  he  had  her  —  and  it  made  her  feel  as 
if  death  itself  had  her  in  its  grip.  She  lay  in  horror. 
There  was  no  man  there  loving  her.  She  almost  hated 
him.  Then  came  little  bouts  of  tenderness.  But  she 
dared  not  pity  him. 

Dawes  had  come  to  Colonel  Seely's  Home  near  Netting- 


The  Release  477 

ham.  There  Paul  visited  him  sometimes,  Clara  very  occa- 
sionally. Between  the  two  men  the  friendship  had  de- 
veloped peculiarly.  Dawes,  who  mended  very  slowly  and 
seemed  very  feeble,  seemed  to  leave  himself  in  the  hands 
of  Morel. 

In  the  beginning  of  November  Clara  reminded  Paul  that 
it  was  her  birthday. 

"  I  'd  nearly  forgotten,"  he  said. 

"  I  thought  quite,"  she  replied. 

"  No.     Shall  we  go  to  the  seaside  for  the  week-end?  " 

They  went.  It  was  cold  and  rather  dismal.  She  waited 
for  him  to  be  warm  and  tender  with  her,  instead  of  which 
he  seemed  hardly  aware  of  her.  He  sat  in  the  railway- 
carriage,  looking  out,  and  was  startled  when  she  spoke  to 
him.  He  was  not  definitely  thinking.  Things  seemed  as 
if  they  did  not  exist.  She  went  across  to  him. 

"  What  is  it,  dear?  "  she  asked. 

"  Nothing !  "  he  said.  "  Don't  those  windmill  sails  look 
monotonous  ?  " 

He  sat  holding  her  hand.  He  could  not  talk  nor  think. 
It  was  a  comfort,  however,  to  sit  holding  her  hand.  She 
was  dissatisfied  and  miserable.  He  was  not  with  her;  she 
was  nothing. 

And  in  the  evening  they  sat  among  the  sandhills,  looking 
at  the  black,  heavy  sea. 

"  She  will  never  give  in,"  he  said  quietly. 

Clara's  heart  sank. 

"  No,"  she  replied. 

"  There  are  different  ways  of  dying.  My  father's  peo- 
ple are  frightened,  and  have  to  be  hauled  out  of  life  into 
death  like  cattle  into  a  slaughter-house,  pulled  by  the 
neck;  but  my  mother's  people  are  pushed  from  behind, 
inch  by  inch.  They  are  stubborn  people,  and  won't  die." 

"  Yes,"  said  Clara. 

"  And  she  won't  die.  She  can't.  Mr.  Renshaw,  the 
parson,  was  in  the  other  day.  '  Think ! '  he  said  to  her ; 
'  you  will  have  your  mother  and  father,  and  your  sisters, 
and  your  son,  in  the  Other  Land.'  And  she  said :  *  I  have 


478  Sons  and  Lovers 

done  without  them  for  a  long  time,  and  can  do  without 
them  now.  It  is  the  living  I  want,  not  the  dead.'  She 
wants  to  live  even  now." 

"  Oh,  how  horrible !  "  said  Clara,  too  frightened  to 
speak. 

"  And  she  looks  at  me,  and  she  wants  to  stay  with  me," 
he  went  on  monotonously.  "  She  's  got  such  a  will,  it 
seems  as  if  she  would  never  go  —  never !  " 

"  Don't  think  of  it !  "  cried  Clara. 

"  And  she  was  religious  —  she  is  religious  now  —  but  it 
is  no  good.  She  simply  won't  give  in.  And  do  you  know, 
I  said  to  her  on  Thursday,  '  Mother,  if  I  had  to  die,  I  'd 
die.  I  'd  will  to  die.'  And  she  said  to  me,  sharp :  '  Do 
you  think  I  have  n't  ?  Do  you  think  you  can  die  when 
you  like?'" 

His  voice  ceased.  He  did  not  cry,  only  went  on  speak- 
ing monotonously.  Clara  wanted  to  run.  She  looked 
round.  There  was  the  black,  re-echoing  shore,  the  dark 
sky  down  on  her.  She  got  up  terrified.  She  wanted  to 
be  where  there  was  light,  where  there  were  other  people. 
She  wanted  to  be  away  from  him.  He  sat  with  his  head 
dropped,  not  moving  a  muscle. 

"  And  I  don't  want  her  to  eat,"  he  said,  "  and  she 
knows  it.  When  I  ask  her,  *  Shall  you  have  anything?  ' 
she  's  almost  afraid  to  say  '  Yes.'  '  I  '11  have  a  cup  of 
Benger's,'  she  says.  *  It  '11  only  keep  your  strength  up,' 
I  said  to  her.  '  Yes  '  —  and  she  almost  cried  —  '  but 
there  's  such  a  gnawing  when  I  eat  nothing,  I  can't  bear 
it.'  So  I  went  and  made  her  the  food.  It 's  the  cancer 
that  gnaws  like  that  at  her.  I  wish  she  'd  die !  " 

"  Come !  "  said  Clara  roughly.    "  I  'm  going." 

He  followed  her  down  the  darkness  of  the  sands.  He 
did  not  come  to  her.  He  seemed  scarcely  aware  of  her 
existence.  And  she  was  afraid  of  him,  and  disliked  him. 

In  the  same  acute  daze  they  went  back  to  Nottingham. 
He  was  always  busy,  always  doing  something,  always  go- 
ing from  one  to  the  other  of  his  friends. 

On  the  Monday  he  went  to  see  Baxter  Dawes.    Listless 


The  Release  479 

and  pale,  the  man  rose  to  greet  the  other,  clinging  to  his 
chair  as  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  You  should  n't  get  up,"  said  Paul. 

Dawes  sat  down  heavily,  eyeing  Morel  with  a  sort  of 
suspicion. 

"  Don't  you  waste  your  time  on  me,"  he  said,  "  if  you  've 
owt  better  to  do." 

"  I  wanted  to  come,"  said  Paul.  "  Here !  I  brought  you 
some  sweets." 

The  invalid  put  them  aside. 

"  It 's  not  been  much  of  a  week-end,"  said  Morel. 

"  How  's  your  mother?  "  asked  the  other. 

"  Hardly  any  different." 

"  I  thought  she  was  perhaps  worse,  being  as  you  did  n't 
come  on  Sunday." 

"  I  was  at  Skegness,"  said  Paul.    "  I  wanted  a  change." 

The  other  looked  at  him  with  dark  eyes.  He  seemed 
to  be  waiting,  not  quite  daring  to  ask,  trusting  to  be  told. 

66 1  went  with  Clara,"  said  Paul. 

"  I  knew  as  much,"  said  Dawes  quietly. 

"  It  was  an  old  promise,"  said  Paul. 

"  You  have  it  your  own  way,"  said  Dawes. 

This  was  the  first  time  Clara  had  been  definitely  men- 
tioned between  them. 

"  Nay,"  said  Morel  slowly ;   "  she  's  tired  of  me." 

Again  Dawes  looked  at  him. 

"  Since  August  she  's  been  getting  tired  of  me,"  Morel 
repeated. 

The  two  men  were  very  quiet  together.  Paul  suggested 
a  game  of  draughts.  They  played  in  silence. 

"  I  s'll  go  abroad  when  my  mother  's  dead,"  said  Paul. 

"  Abroad !  "  repeated  Dawes. 

"  Yes ;   I  don't  care  what  I  do." 

They  continued  the  game.     Dawes  was  winning. 

"  I  s'll  have  to  begin  a  new  start  of  some  sort,"  said 
Paul ;  "  and  you  as  well,  I  suppose." 

He  took  one  of  Dawes'  pieces. 

"  I  dunno  where,"  said  the  other. 


480  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  Things  have  to  happen,"  Morel  said.  "  It  's  no  good 
doing  anything  —  at  least  —  no,  I  don't  know.  Give  me 
some  toffee." 

The  two  men  ate  sweets,  and  began  another  game  of 
draughts. 

"  What  made  that  scar  on  your  mouth?  "  asked  Dawes. 

Paul  put  his  hand  hastily  to  his  lips,  and  looked  over 
the  garden. 

"  I  had  a  bicycle  accident,"  he  said. 

Dawes'  hand  trembled  as  he  moved  the  piece. 

"  You  should  n't  ha'  laughed  at  me,"  he  said  very  low. 

"When?" 

"  That  night  on  Woodborough  Road,  when  you  and  her 
passed  me  —  you  with  your  hand  on  her  shoulder." 

"  I  never  laughed  at  you,"  said  Paul. 

Dawes  kept  his  fingers  on  the  draught-piece. 

"  I  never  knew  you  were  there  till  the  very  second  when 
you  passed,"  said  Morel. 

"  It  was  that  as  did  me,"  he  said,  very  low. 

Paul  took  another  sweet. 

"  I  never  laughed,"  he  said,  "  except  as  I  'm  always 
laughing." 

They  finished  the  game. 

That  night  Morel  walked  home  from  Nottingham,  in 
order  to  have  something  to  do.  The  furnaces  flared  in  a 
red  blotch  over  Bulwell ;  the  black  clouds  were  like  a  low 
ceiling.  As  he  went  along  the  ten  miles  of  highroad,  he 
felt  as  if  he  were  walking  out  of  life,  between  the  black 
levels  of  the  sky  and  the  earth.  But  at  the  end  was  only 
the  sick-room.  If  he  walked  and  walked  for  ever,  there 
was  only  that  place  to  come  to. 

He  was  not  tired  when  he  got  near  home,  or  he  did  not 
know  it.  Across  the  field  he  could  see  the  red  firelight 
leaping  in  her  bedroom  window. 

"  When  she  's  dead,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  that  fire  will 
go  out." 

He  took  off  his  boots  quietly  and  crept  upstairs.  His 
mother's  door  was  wide  open,  because  she  slept  alone  still. 


The  Release  481 

The  red  firelight  dashed  its  glow  on  the  landing.  Soft  as  a 
shadow,  he  peeped  in  her  doorway. 

"  Paul !  "  she  murmured. 

His  heart  seemed  to  break  again.  He  went  in  and  sat 
by  the  bed. 

"  How  late  you  are !  "  she  murmured. 

"  Not  very,"  he  said. 

"  Why,  what  time  is  it?  "  The  murmur  came  plaintive 
and  helpless. 

"  It 's  only  just  gone  eleven." 

That  was  not  true ;  it  was  nearly  one  o'clock. 

"  Oh!  "  she  said;   "  I  thought  it  was  later." 

And  he  knew  the  unutterable  misery  of  her  nights  that 
would  not  go. 

"  Can't  you  sleep,  my  pigeon?  "  he  said. 

"  No,  I  can't,"  she  wailed. 

"  Never  mind,  little !  "  he  said  crooning.  "  Never 
mind,  my  love.  I  '11  stop  with  you  half  an  hour,  my 
pigeon ;  then  perhaps  it  will  be  better." 

And  he  sat  by  the  bedside,  slowly,  rhythmically  stroking 
her  brows  with  his  finger-tips,  stroking  her  eyes  shut, 
soothing  her,  holding  her  fingers  in  his  free  hand.  They 
could  hear  the  sleepers'  breathing  in  the  other  rooms. 

"  Now  go  to  bed,"  she  murmured,  lying  quite  still  under 
his  fingers  and  his  love. 

"  Will  you  sleep?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  think  so." 

"  You  feel  better,  my  little,  don't  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  like  a  fretful,  half-soothed  child. 

Still  the  days  and  the  weeks  went  by.  He  hardly  ever 
went  to  see  Clara  now.  But  he  wandered  restlessly  from 
one  person  to  another  for  some  help,  and  there  was  none 
anywhere.  Miriam  had  written  to  him  tenderly.  He  went 
to  see  her.  Her  heart  was  very  sore  when  she  saw  him, 
white,  gaunt,  with  his  eyes  dark  and  bewildered.  Her  pity 
came  up,  hurting  her  till  she  could  not  bear  it. 

"  How  is  she?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  same  —  the  same !  "  he  said.     "  The  doctor  says 


482  Sons  and  Lovers 

she  can't  last,  but  I  know  she  will.  She  '11  be  here  at 
Christmas." 

Miriam  shuddered.  She  drew  him  to  her;  she  pressed 
him  to  her  bosom;  she  kissed  him  and  kissed  him.  He 
submitted,  but  it  was  torture.  She  could  not  kiss  his 
agony.  That  remained  alone  and  apart.  She  kissed  his 
face,  and  roused  his  blood,  while  his  soul  was  apart  writh- 
ing with  the  agony  of  death.  And  she  kissed  him  and 
fingered  his  body,  till  at  last,  feeling  he  would  go  mad, 
he  got  away  from  her.  It  was  not  that  he  wanted  just 
then  —  not  that.  And  she  thought  she  had  soothed  him 
and  done  him  good. 

December  came,  and  some  snow.  He  stayed  at  home 
all  the  while  now.  They  could  not  afford  a  nurse.  Annie 
came  to  look  after  her  mother;  the  parish  nurse,  whom 
they  loved,  came  in  morning  and  evening.  Paul  shared 
the  nursing  with  Annie.  Often,  in  the  evenings,  when 
friends  were  in  the  kitchen  with  them,  they  all  laughed 
together  and  shook  with  laughter.  It  was  reaction.  Paul 
was  so  comical,  Annie  was  so  quaint.  The  whole  party 
laughed  till  they  cried,  trying  to  subdue  the  sound.  And 
Mrs.  Morel,  lying  alone  in  the  darkness,  heard  them,  and 
among  her  bitterness  was  a  feeling  of  relief. 

Then  Paul  would  go  upstairs  gingerly,  guiltily,  to  see  if 
she  had  heard. 

"  Shall  I  give  you  some  milk?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  little,"  she  replied  plaintively. 

And  he  would  put  some  water  with  it,  so  that  it  should 
not  nourish  her.  Yet  he  loved  her  more  than  his  own 
life. 

She  had  morphia  every  night,  and  her  heart  got  fitful. 
Annie  slept  beside  her.  Paul  would  go  in  in  the  early 
morning,  when  his  sister  got  up.  His  mother  was  wasted 
and  almost  ashen  in  the  morning  with  the  morphia. 
Darker  and  darker  grew  her  eyes,  all  pupil,  with  the  tor- 
ture. In  the  mornings  the  weariness  and  ache  were  too 
much  to  bear.  Yet  she  could  not  —  would  not  —  weep,  or 
even  complain  much. 


The  Release  483 

"  You  slept  a  bit  later  this  morning,  little  one,"  he 
would  say  to  her. 

"  Did  I  ?  "  she  answered,  with  fretful  weariness. 

"  Yes ;  it 's  nearly  eight  o'clock." 

He  stood  looking  out  of  the  window.  The  whole  coun- 
try was  bleak  and  pallid  under  the  snow.  Then  he  felt  her 
pulse.  There  was  a  strong  stroke  and  a  weak  one,  like  a 
sound  and  its  echo.  That  was  supposed  to  betoken  the 
end.  She  let  him  feel  her  wrist,  knowing  what  he  wanted. 

Sometimes  they  looked  in  each  other's  eyes.  Then  they 
almost  seemed  to  make  an  agreement.  It  was  almost  as 
if  he  were  agreeing  to  die  also.  But  she  did  not  consent 
to  die;  she  would  not.  Her  body  was  wasted  to  a  frag- 
ment of  ash.  Her  eyes  were  dark  and  full  of  torture. 

"  Can't  you  give  her  something  to  put  an  end  to  it?  "  he 
asked  the  doctor  at  last. 

But  the  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"  She  can't  last  many  days  now,  Mr.  Morel,"  he  said. 

Paul  went  indoors. 

"  I  can't  bear  it  much  longer ;  we  shall  all  go  mad," 
said  Annie. 

The  two  sat  down  to  breakfast. 

"  Go  and  sit  with  her  while  we  have  breakfast,  Minnie," 
said  Annie.  But  the  girl  was  frightened. 

Paul  went  through  the  country,  through  the  woods,  over 
the  snow.  He  saw  the  marks  of  rabbits  and  birds  in  the 
white  snow.  He  wandered  miles  and  miles.  A  smoky  red 
sunset  came  on  slowly,  painfully,  lingering.  He  thought 
she  would  die  that  day.  There  was  a  donkey  that  came 
up  to  him  over  the  snow  by  the  wood's  edge,  and  put  its 
head  against  him,  and  walked  with  him  alongside.  He  put 
his  arms  round  the  donkey's  neck,  and  stroked  his  cheeks 
against  his  ears. 

His  mother,  silent,  was  still  alive,  with  her  hard  mouth 
gripped  grimly,  her  eyes  of  dark  torture  only  living. 

It  was  nearing  Christmas  ;  there  was  more  snow.  Annie 
and  he  felt  as  if  they  could  go  on  no  more.  Still  her  dark 
eyes  were  alive.  Morel,  silent  and  frightened,  obliterated 


484  Sons  and  Lovers 

himself.  Sometimes  he  would  go  into  the  sick-room  and 
look  at  her.  Then  he  backed  out,  bewildered. 

She  kept  her  hold  on  life  still.  The  miners  had  been  out 
on  strike,  and  returned  a  fortnight  or  so  before  Christmas. 
Minnie  went  upstairs  with  the  feeding-cup.  It  was  two 
days  after  the  men  had  been  in. 

"  Have  the  men  been  saying  their  hands  are  sore, 
Minnie?  "  she  asked,  in  the  faint,  querulous  voice  that 
would  not  give  in.  Minnie  stood  surprised. 

"  Not  as  I  know  of,  Mrs.  Morel,"  she  answered. 

"  But  I  '11  bet  they  are  sore,"  said  the  dying  woman,  as 
she  moved  her  head  with  a  sigh  of  weariness.  "  But,  at  any 
rate,  there  '11  be  something  to  buy  in  with  this  week." 

Not  a  thing  did  she  let  slip. 

"  Your  father's  pit  things  will  want  well  airing,  Annie," 
she  said,  when  the  men  were  going  back  to  work. 

"  Don't  you  bother  about  that,  my  dear,"  said  Annie. 

One  night  Annie  and  Paul  were  alone.  Nurse  was  up- 
stairs. 

"  She  '11  live  over  Christmas,"  said  Annie.  They  were 
both  full  of  horror. 

"  She  won't,"  he  replied  grimly.  "  I  s'll  give  her 
morphia." 

"  Which?  "  said  Annie. 

"  All  that  came  from  Sheffield,"  said  Paul. 

"  Ay  —  do !  "  said  Annie. 

The  next  day  he  was  painting  in  the  bedroom.  She 
seemed  to  be  asleep.  He  stepped  softly  backwards  and 
forwards  at  his  painting.  Suddenly  her  small  voice 
wailed : 

"  Don't  walk  about,  Paul." 

He  looked  round.  Her  eyes,  like  dark  bubbles  in  her 
face,  were  looking  at  him. 

"  No,  my  dear,"  he  said  gently.  Another  fibre  seemed 
to  snap  in  his  heart. 

That  evening  he  got  all  the  morphia  pills  there  were, 
and  took  them  downstairs.  Carefully  he  crushed  them  to 
powder. 


The  Release  485 

"  What  are  you  doing?  "  said  Annie. 

"  I  s'll  put  'em  in  her  night  milk." 

Then  they  both  laughed  together  like  two  conspiring 
children.  On  top  of  all  their  horror  flickered  this  little 
sanity. 

Nurse  did  not  come  that  night  to  settle  Mrs.  Morel 
down.  Paul  went  up  with  the  hot  milk  in  a  feeding-cup. 
It  was  nine  o'clock. 

She  was  reared  up  in  bed,  and  he  put  the  feeding-cup 
between  her  lips  that  he  would  have  died  to  save  from  any 
hurt.  'She  took  a  sip,  then  put  the  spout  of  the  cup  away 
and  looked  at  him  with  her  dark,  wondering  eyes.  He 
looked  at  her. 

"  Oh,  it  is  bitter,  Paul ! "  she  said,  making  a  little 
grimace. 

"  It 's  a  new  sleeping  draught  the  doctor  gave  me  for 
you,"  he  said.  "  He  thought  it  would  n't  leave  you  in  such 
a  state  in  the  morning." 

"  And  I  hope  it  won't,"  she  said,  like  a  child. 

She  drank  some  more  of  the  milk. 

"  But  it  is  horrid !  "  she  said. 

He  saw  her  frail  fingers  over  the  cup,  her  lips  making  a 
little  move. 

"  I  know  —  I  tasted  it,"  he  said.  "  But  I  '11  give  you 
some  clean  milk  afterwards." 

"  I  think  so,"  she  said,  and  she  went  on  with  the 
draught.  She  was  obedient  to  him  like  a  child.  He  won- 
dered if  she  knew.  He  saw  her  poor  wasted  throat  mov- 
ing as  she  drank  with  difficulty.  Then  he  ran  downstairs 
for  more  milk.  There  were  no  grains  in  the  bottom  of 
the  cup. 

"  Has  she  had  it?  "  whispered  Annie. 

"  Yes  —  and  she  said  it  was  bitter." 

"  Oh !  "  laughed  Annie,  putting  her  under  lip  between 
her  teeth. 

"  And  I  told  her  it  was  a  new  draught.  Where  's  that 
milk?  " 

They  both  went  upstairs. 


486  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  I  wonder  why  nurse  did  n't  come  to  settle  me  down?  " 
complained  the  mother,  like  a  child,  wistfully. 

"  She  said  she  was  going  to  a  concert,  my  love,"  replied 
Annie. 

"Did  she?" 

They  were  silent  a  minute.  Mrs.  Morel  gulped  the  little 
clean  milk. 

"  Annie,  that  draught  was  horrid !  "  she  said  plaintively. 

"  Was  it,  my  love?    Well,  never  mind." 

The  mother  sighed  again  with  weariness.  Her  pulse  was 
very  irregular. 

"  Let  us  settle  you  down,"  said  Annie.  "  Perhaps 
nurse  will  be  so  late." 

"  Ay,"  said  the  mother  —  "  try." 

They  turned  the  clothes  back.  Paul  saw  his  mother 
like  a  girl  curled  up  in  her  flannel  nightdress.  Quickly 
they  made  one  half  the  bed,  moved  her,  made  the  other, 
straightened  her  nightgown  over  her  small  feet,  and 
covered  her  up. 

"There,"  said  Paul,  stroking  her  softly.  "There! 
—  now  you  '11  sleep." 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  I  did  n't  think  you  could  do  the 
bed  so  nicely,"  she  added,  almost  gaily.  Then  she  curled 
up,  with  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  her  head  snugged  be- 
tween her  shoulder.  Paul  put  the  long  thin  plait  of  grey 
hair  over  her  shoulder  and  kissed  her. 

"  You  '11  sleep,  my  love,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"   she  answered  trustfully.     "Good-night." 

They  put  out  the  light,  and  it  was  still. 

Morel  was  in  bed.  Nurse  did  not  come.  Annie  and 
Paul  came  to  look  at  her  about  eleven.  She  seemed  to 
be  sleeping  as  usual  after  her  draught.  Her  mouth  had 
come  a  bit  open. 

"  Shall  we  sit  up?  "  said  Paul. 

"  I  s'll  lie  with  her  as  I  always  do,"  said  Annie.  "  She 
might  wake  up." 

"  All  right.     And  call  me  if  you  see  any  difference." 

"  Yes." 


The  Release  487 

They  lingered  before  the  bedroom  fire,  feeling  the  night 
big  and  black  and  snowy  outside,  their  two  selves  alone 
in  the  world.  At  last  he  went  into  the  next  room  and 
went  to  bed. 

He  slept  almost  immediately,  but  kept  waking  every 
now  and  again.  Then  he  went  sound  asleep.  He  started 
awake  at  Annie's  whispered,  "  Paul,  Paul !  "  He  saw  his 
sister  in  her  white  nightdress,  with  her  long  plait  of 
hair  down  her  back,  standing  in  the  darkness. 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  whispered,  sitting  up. 

"  Come  and  look  at  her." 

He  slipped  out  of  bed.  A  bud  of  gas  was  burning  in  the 
sick-chamber.  His  mother  lay  with  her  cheek  on  her  hand, 
curled  up  as  she  had  gone  to  sleep.  But  her  mouth  had 
fallen  open,  and  she  breathed  with  great,  hoarse  breaths, 
like  snoring,  and  there  were  long  intervals  between. 

"  She  's  going !  "  he  whispered. 

"  Yes,"  said  Annie. 

"  How  long  has  she  been  like  it?  " 

"  I  only  just  woke  up." 

Annie  huddled  into  the  dressing-gown,  Paul  wrapped 
himself  in  a  brown  blanket.  It  was  three  o'clock.  He 
mended  the  fire.  Then  the  two  sat  waiting.  The  great, 
snoring  breath  was  taken  —  held  awhile  —  then  given 
back.  There  was  a  space  —  a  long  space.  Then  they 
started.  The  great,  snoring  breath  was  taken  again. 
He  bent  close  down  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Is  n't  it  awful !  "  whispered  Annie. 

He  nodded.  They  sat  down  again  helplessly.  Again 
came  the  great,  snoring  breath.  Again  they  hung  sus- 
pended. Again  it  was  given  back,  long  and  harsh.  The 
sound,  so  irregular,  at  such  wide  intervals,  sounded 
through  the  house.  Morel,  in  his  room,  slept  on.  Paul 
and  Annie  sat  crouched,  huddled,  motionless.  The  great, 
snoring  sound  began  again  —  there  was  a  painful  pause 
while  the  breath  was  held  —  back  came  the  rasping  breath. 
Minute  after  minute  passed.  Paul  looked  at  her  again, 
bending  low  over  her. 


488  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  She  may  last  like  this,"  he  said. 

They  were  both  silent.  He  looked  out  of  the  window, 
and  could  faintly  discern  the  snow  on  the  garden. 

"  You  go  to  my  bed,"  he  said  to  Annie.     "  I  '11  sit  up." 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  '11  stop  with  you." 

"  I  'd  rather  you  did  n't,"  he  said. 

At  last  Annie  crept  out  of  the  room,  and  he  was  alone. 
He  hugged  himself  in  his  brown  blanket,  crouched  in 
front  of  his  mother,  watching.  She  looked  dreadful, 
with  the  bottom  jaw  fallen  back.  He  watched.  Some- 
times he  thought  the  great  breath  would  never  begin 
again.  He  could  not  bear  it  —  the  waiting.  Then  sud- 
denly, startling  him,  came  the  great  harsh  sound.  He 
mended  the  fire  again,  noiselessly.  She  must  not  be 
disturbed.  The  minutes  went  by.  The  night  was  going, 
breath  by  breath.  Each  time  the  sound  came  he  felt  it 
wring  him,  till  at  last  he  could  not  feel  so  much. 

His  father  got  up.  Paul  heard  the  miner  drawing  his 
stocking  on,  yawning.  Then  Morel,  in  shirt  and  stock- 
ings, entered. 

"Hush!"  said  Paul. 

Morel  stood  watching.  Then  he  looked  at  his  son, 
helplessly,  and  in  horror. 

"Had  I  better  stop  a-whoam?"  he  whispered. 

"  No.     Go  to  work.     She  '11  last  through  to-morrow.'' 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"  Yes.    Go  to  work." 

The  miner  looked  at  her  again,  in  fear,  and  went 
obediently  out  of  the  room.  Paul  saw  the  tape  of  his 
garters  swinging  against  his  legs. 

After  another  half-hour  Paul  went  downstairs  and 
drank  a  cup  of  tea,  then  returned.  Morel,  dressed  for 
the  pit,  came  upstairs  again. 

"Am  I  to  go?"  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

And  in  a  few  minutes  Paul  heard  his  father's  heavy 
steps  go  thudding  over  the  deadening  snow.  Miners 
called  in  the  street  as  they  tramped  in  gangs  to  work. 


The  Release  489 

The  terrible,  long-drawn  breaths  continued  —  heave  — 
heave  —  heave ;  then  a  long  pause  —  then  ah  —  ah- 
h-hrh!  as  it  came  back.  Far  away  over  the  snow 
sounded  the  hooters  of  the  ironworks.  One  after  an- 
other they  crowed  and  boomed,  some  small  and  far  away, 
some  near,  the  blowers  of  the  collieries  and  the  other 
works.  Then  there  was  silence.  He  mended  the  fire. 
The  great  breaths  broke  the  silence  —  she  looked  just 
the  same.  He  put  back  the  blind  and  peered  out.  Still 
it  was  dark.  Perhaps  there  was  a  lighter  tinge.  Perhaps 
the  snow  was  bluer.  He  drew  up  the  blind  and  got 
dressed.  Then,  shuddering,  he  drank  brandy  from  the 
bottle  on  the  washstand.  The  snow  was  growing  blue. 
He  heard  a  cart  clanking  down  the  street.  Yes,  it  was 
seven  o'clock,  and  it  was  coming  a  little  bit  light.  He 
heard  some  people  calling.  The  world  was  waking.  A 
grey,  deathly  dawn  crept  over  the  snow.  Yes,  he  could 
see  the  houses.  He  put  out  the  gas.  It  seemed  very 
dark.  The  breathing  came  still,  but  he  was  almost  used 
to  it.  He  could  see  her.  She  was  just  the  same.  He 
wondered  if  he  piled  heavy  clothes  on  top  of  her  it  would 
make  it  heavier  and  the  horrible  breathing  would  stop. 
He  looked  at  her.  That  was  not  her  —  not  her  a  bit. 
If  he  piled  the  blanket  and  heavy  coats  on  her  — 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  Annie  entered.  She 
looked  at  him  questioningly. 

"  Just  the  same,"  he  said  calmly. 

They  whispered  together  a  minute,  then  went  down- 
stairs to  get  breakfast.  It  was  twenty  to  eight.  Soon 
Annie  came  down. 

"  Is  n't  it  awful !  Does  n't  she  look  awful !  "  she  whis- 
pered, dazed  with  horror. 

He  nodded. 

"  If  she  looks  like  that !  "  said  Annie. 

"  Drink  some  tea,"  he  said. 

They  went  upstairs  again.  Soon  the  neighbours  came 
with  their  frightened  question : 

"How  is  she?" 


490  Sons  and  Lovers 

It  went  on  just  the  same.  She  lay  with  her  cheek  in 
her  hand,  her  mouth  fallen  open,  and  the  great,  ghastly 
snores  came  and  went. 

At  ten  o'clock  nurse  came.  She  looked  strange  and 
woe-begone. 

"  Nurse,"  cried  Paul,  "  she  '11  last  like  this  for  days?  " 

"  She  can't,  Mr.  Morel,"  said  nurse.     "  She  can't." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"  Is  n't  it  dreadful !  "  wailed  the  nurse.  "  Who  would 
have  thought  she  could  stand  it?  Go  down  now,  Mr. 
Morel,  go  down." 

At  last,  at  about  eleven  o'clock,  he  went  downstairs 
and  sat  in  the  neighbour's  house.  Annie  was  downstairs 
also.  Nurse  and  Arthur  were  upstairs.  Paul  sat  with 
his  head  in  his  hands.  Suddenly  Annie  came  flying  across 
the  yard  crying,  half  mad : 

"  Paul  —  Paul  —  she  's  gone !  " 

In  a  second  he  was  back  in  his  own  house  and  upstairs. 
She  lay  curled  up  and  still,  with  her  face  on  her  hand, 
and  nurse  was  wiping  her  mouth.  They  all  stood  back. 
He  kneeled  down,  and  put  his  face  to  hers  and  his  arms 
round  her: 

"  My  love  —  my  love  —  oh,  my  love !  "  he  whispered 
again  and  again.  "  My  love  —  oh,  my  love !  " 

Then  he  heard  the  nurse  behind  him,  crying,  saying: 

"  She  's  better,  Mr.  Morel,  she  's  better." 

When  he  took  his  face  up  from  his  warm,  dead  mother 
he  went  straight  downstairs  and  began  blacking  his 
boots. 

There  was  a  good  deal  to  do,  letters  to  write,  and  so 
on.  The  doctor  came  and  glanced  at  her,  and  sighed. 

"  Ay  —  poor  thing ! "  he  said,  then  turned  away. 
"  Well,  call  at  the  surgery  about  six  for  the  certificate." 

The  father  came  home  from  work  at  about  four  o'clock. 
He  dragged  silently  into  the  house  and  sat  down.  Minnie 
bustled  to  give  him  his  dinner.  Tired,  he  laid  his  black 
arms  on  the  table.  There  were  swede  turnips  for  his 
dinner,  which  he  liked.  Paul  wondered  if  he  knew.  It 


The  Release  491 

was  some  time,  and  nobody  had  spoken.  At  last  the 
son  said: 

"You  noticed  the  blinds  were  down?" 

Morel  looked  up. 

"  No,"  he  said.     "  Why  —  has  she  gone?  " 

"  Yes." 

"When  wor  that?" 

"  About  twelve  this  morning." 

"H'm!" 

The  miner  sat  still  for  a  moment,  then  began  his  dinner. 
It  was  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  He  ate  his  turnips 
in  silence.  Afterwards  he  washed  and  went  upstairs  to 
dress.  The  door  of  her  room  was  shut. 

"  Have  you  seen  her  ?  "  Annie  asked  of  him  when  he 
came  down. 

"  No,"  he  said. 

In  a  little  while  he  went  out.  Annie  went  away,  and 
Paul  called  on  the  undertaker,  the  clergyman,  the  doctor, 
the  registrar.  It  was  a  long  business.  He  got  back  at 
nearly  eight  o'clock.  The  undertaker  was  coming  soon 
to  measure  for  the  coffin.  The  house  was  empty  except 
for  her.  He  took  a  candle  and  went  upstairs. 

The  room  was  cold,  that  had  been  warm  for  so  long. 
Flowers,  bottles,  plates,  all  sick-room  litter  was  taken 
away ;  everything  was  harsh  and  austere.  She  lay  raised 
on  the  bed,  the  sweep  of  the  sheet  from  the  raised  feet 
was  like  a  clean  curve  of  snow,  so  silent.  She  lay  like 
a  maiden  asleep.  With  his  candle  in  his  hand,  he  bent 
over  her.  She  lay  like  a  girl  asleep  and  dreaming  of  her 
love.  The  mouth  was  a  little  open,  as  if  wondering  from 
the  suffering,  but  her  face  was  young,  her  brow  clear  and 
white  as  if  life  had  never  touched  it.  He  looked  again  at 
the  eyebrows,  at  the  small,  winsome  nose  a  bit  on  one 
side.  She  was  young  again.  Only  the  hair  as  it  arched 
so  beautifully  from  her  temples  was  mixed  with  silver, 
and  the  two  simple  plaits  that  lay  on  her  shoulders  were 
filigree  of  silver  and  brown.  She  would  wake  up.  She 
would  lift  her  eyelids.  She  was  with  him  still.  He  bent 


492  Sons  and  Lovers 

and  kissed  her  passionately.  But  there  was  coldness 
against  his  mouth.  He  bit  his  lip  with  horror.  Look- 
ing at  her,  he  felt  he  could  never,  never  let  her  go.  No! 
He  stroked  the  hair  from  her  temples.  That,  too,  was 
cold.  He  saw  the  mouth  so  dumb  and  wondering  at  the 
hurt.  Then  he  crouched  on  the  floor,  whispering  to 
her: 

"Mother,   mother!" 

He  was  still  with  her  when  the  undertakers  came,  young 
men  who  had  been  to  school  with  him.  They  touched 
her  reverently,  and  in  a  quiet,  businesslike  fashion.  They 
did  not  look  at  her.  He  watched  jealously.  He  and 
Annie  guarded  her  fiercely.  They  would  not  let  anybody 
come  to  see  her,  and  the  neighbours  were  offended. 

After  a  while  Paul  went  out  of  the  house,  and  played 
cards  at  a  friend's.  It  was  midnight  when  he  got  back. 
His  father  rose  from  the  couch  as  he  entered,  saying  in 
a  plaintive  way: 

"  I  thought  tha  wor  niver  comin',  lad." 

"  I  did  n't  think  you  'd  sit  up,"  said  Paul. 

His  father  looked  so  forlorn.  Morel  had  been  a  man 
without  fear  — •  simply  nothing  frightened  him.  Paul 
realized  with  a  start  that  he  had  been  afraid  to  go  to 
bed,  alone  in  the  house  with  his  dead.  He  was  sorry. 

"  I  forgot  you  'd  be  alone,  father,'7  he  said. 

"  Dost  want  owt  to  eat?  "  asked  Morel. 

"  No." 

"  Sithee  —  I  made  thee  a  drop  o'  hot  milk.  Get  it 
down  thee ;  it 's  cold  enough  for  owt." 

Paul  drank  it. 

"  I  must  go  to  Notttingham  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

After  a  while  Morel  went  to  bed.  He  hurried  past 
the  closed  door,  and  left  his  own  door  open.  Soon  the 
son  came  upstairs  also.  He  went  in  to  kiss  her  good- 
night, as  usual.  It  was  cold  and  dark.  He  wished  they 
had  kept  her  fire  burning.  Still  she  dreamed  her  young 
dream.  But  she  would  be  cold. 

"  My  dear !  "  he  whispered.    "  My  dear !  " 


The  Release  493 

And  he  did  not  kiss  her,  for  fear  she  should  be  cold 
and  strange  to  him.  It  eased  him  she  slept  so  beautifully. 
He  shut  her  door  softly,  not  to  wake  her,  and  went  to 
bed. 

In  the  morning  Morel  summoned  his  courage,  hearing 
Annie  downstairs  and  Paul  coughing  in  the  room  across 
the  landing.  He  opened  her  door,  and  went  into  the 
darkened  room.  He  saw  the  white  uplifted  form  in  the 
twilight,  but  her  he  dared  not  see.  Bewildered,  too 
frightened  to  possess  any  of  his  faculties,  he  got 
out  of  the  room  again  and  left  her.  He  never  looked  at 
her  again.  He  had  not  seen  her  for  months,  because 
he  had  not  dared  to  look.  And  she  looked  like  his  young 
wife  again. 

"  Have  you  seen  her?  "  Annie  asked  of  him  sharply 
after  breakfast. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"  And  don't  you  think  she  looks  nice?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  went  out  of  the  house  soon  after.  And  all  the 
time  he  seemed  to  be  creeping  aside  to  avoid  it. 

Paul  went  about  from  place  to  place,  doing  the  busi- 
ness of  the  death.  He  met  Clara  in  Nottingham,  and 
they  had  tea  together  in  a  cafe,  when  they  were  quite 
jolly  again.  She  was  infinitely  relieved  to  find  he  did 
not  take  it  tragically. 

Later,  when  the  relatives  began  to  come  for  the  funeral, 
the  affair  became  public,  and  the  children  became  social 
beings.  They  put  themselves  aside.  They  buried  her  in 
a  furious  storm  of  rain  and  wind.  The  wet  clay  glis- 
tened, all  the  white  flowers  were  soaked.  Annie  gripped 
his  arm  and  leaned  forward.  Down  below  she  saw  a 
dark  corner  of  William's  coffin.  The  oak  box  sank  stead- 
ily. She  was  gone.  The  rain  poured  in  the  grave.  The 
procession  of  black,  with  its  umbrellas  glistening,  turned 
away.  The  cemetery  was  deserted  under  the  drenching 
cold  rain. 

Paul    went    home    and    busied    himself    supplying    the 


494  Sons  and  Lovers 

guests  with  drinks.  His  father  sat  in  the  kitchen  with 
Mrs.  Morel's  relatives,  "  superior "  people,  and  wept, 
and  said  what  a  good  lass  she  'd  been,  and  how  he  'd 
tried  to  do  everything  he  could  for  her  —  everything. 
He  had  striven  all  his  life  to  do  what  he  could  for  her, 
and  he  'd  nothing  to  reproach  himself  with.  She  was 
gone,  but  he  'd  done  his  best  for  her.  He  wiped  his  eyes 
with  his  white  handkerchief.  He  'd  nothing  to  reproach 
himself  for,  he  repeated.  All  his  life  he  'd  done  his  best 
for  her. 

And  that  was  how  he  tried  to  dismiss  her.  He  never 
thought  of  her  personally.  Everything  deep  in  him  he 
denied.  Paul  hated  his  father  for  sitting  sentimentalizing 
over  her.  He  knew  he  would  do  it  in  the  public-houses. 
For  the  real  tragedy  went  on  in  Morel  in  spite  of  him- 
self. Sometimes,  later,  he  came  down  from  his  afternoon 
sleep,  white  and  cowering. 

"  I  have  been  dreaming  of  thy  mother,"  he  said  in  a 
small  voice. 

"  Have  you,  father?  When  I  dream  of  her  it 's  always 
just  as  she  was  when  she  was  well.  I  dream  of  her  often, 
but  it  seems  quite  nice  and  natural,  as  if  nothing  had 
altered." 

But  Morel  crouched  in  front  of  the  fire  in  terror. 

The  weeks  passed  half  real,  not  much  pain,  not  much 
of  anything,  perhaps  a  little  relief,  mostly  a  nuit  blanche. 
Paul  went  restlessly  from  place  to  place.  For 
some  months,  since  his  mother  had  been  worse,  he  had 
not  made  love  to  Clara.  She  was,  as  it  were,  dumb  to 
him,  rather  distant.  Dawes  saw  her  very  occasionally, 
but  the  two  could  not  get  an  inch  across  the  great 
distance  between  them.  The  three  of  them  were  drifting 
forward. 

Dawes  mended  very  slowly.  He  was  in  the  convalescent 
home  at  Skegness  at  Christmas,  nearly  well  again.  Paul 
went  to  the  seaside  for  a  few  days.  His  father  was  with 
Annie  in  Sheffield.  Dawes  came  to  Paul's  lodgings.  His 
time  in  the  home  was  up.  The  two  men,  between  whom 


The  Release  495 

was  such  a  big  reserve,  seemed  faithful  to  each  other. 
Dawes  depended  on  Morel  now.  He  knew  Paul  and 
Clara  had  practically  separated. 

Two  days  after  Christmas  Paul  was  to  go  back  to 
Nottingham.  The  evening  before  he  sat  with  Dawes 
smoking  before  the  fire. 

"  You  know  Clara 's  coming  down  for  the  day  to- 
morrow? "  he  said. 

The  other  man  glanced  at  him. 

"  Yes,  you  told  me,"  he  replied. 

Paul  drank  the  remainder  of  his  glass  of  whisky. 

"  I  told  the  landlady  your  wife  was  coming,"  he 
said. 

"  Did  you?  "  said  Dawes,  shrinking,  but  almost  leaving 
himself  in  the  other's  hands.  He  got  up  rather  stiffly, 
and  reached  for  Morel's  glass. 

"  Let  me  fill  you  up,"  he  said. 

Paul   jumped   up. 

"  You  sit  still,"  he  said. 

But  Dawes,  with  rather  shaky  hand,  continued  to  mix 
the  drink. 

"  Say  when,"  he  said. 

"  Thanks  !  "  replied  the  other.  "  But  you  've  no  busi- 
ness to  get  up." 

"  It  does  me  good,  lad,"  replied  Dawes.  "  I  begin  to 
think  I  'm  right  again,  then." 

"  You  are  about  right,  you  know." 

"  I  am,  certainly  I  am,"  said  Dawes,  nodding  to  him. 

"  And  Len  says  he  can  get  you  on  in  Sheffield." 

Dawes  glanced  at  him  again,  with  dark  eyes  that  agreed 
with  everything  the  other  would  say,  perhaps  a  trifle 
dominated  by  him. 

"  It 's  funny,"  said  Paul,  "  starting  again.  I  feel  in 
a  lot  bigger  mess  than  you." 

"In  what  way,  lad?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know.  It 's  as  if  I  was  in  a 
tangled  sort  of  hole,  rather  dark  and  dreary,  and  no  road 
anywhere." 


496  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  I  know  —  I  understand  it,"  Dawes  said,  nodding. 
"  But  you  '11  find  it  '11  come  all  right." 

He  spoke  caressingly. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Paul. 

Dawes  knocked  his  pipe  in  a  hopeless  fashion. 

"  You  've  not  done  for  yourself  like  I  have,"  he  said. 

Morel  saw  the  wrist  and  the  white  hand  of  the  other 
man  gripping  the  stem  of  the  pipe  and  knocking  out 
the  ash,  as  if  he  had  given  up. 

"  How  old  are  you?  "  Paul  asked. 

"  Thirty-nine,"  replied  Dawes,  glancing  at  him. 

Those  brown  eyes,  full  of  the  consciousness  of  failure, 
almost  pleading  for  reassurance,  for  someone  to  re- 
establish the  man  in  himself,  to  warm  him,  to  set  him 
up  firm  again,  troubled  Paul. 

"You'll  just  be  in  your  prime,"  said  Morel.  "You 
don't  look  as  if  much  life  had  gone  out  of  you." 

The  brown  eyes  of  the  other  flashed  suddenly. 

"  It  has  n't,"  he  said.     "  The  go  is  there." 

Paul  looked  up  and  laughed. 

"  We  've  both  got  plenty  of  life  in  us  yet  to  make 
things  fly,"  he  said. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met.  They  exchanged  one 
look.  Having  recognized  the  stress  of  passion  each  in 
the  other,  they  both  drank  their  whisky. 

"  Yes,  begod !  "  said  Dawes,  breathless. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  And  I  don't  see,"  said  Paul,  "  why  you  should  n't  go 
on  where  you  left  off." 

"  What  —  "  said  Dawes,  suggestively. 

"  Yes  —  fit  your  old  home  together  again." 

Dawes  hid  his  face  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Could  n't  be  done,"  he  said,  and  he  looked  up  with 
an  ironic  smile. 

"Why?     Because  you  don't  want?" 

"  Perhaps." 

They  smoked  in  silence.  Dawes  showed  his  teeth  as 
he  bit  his  pipe  stem. 


The  Release  497 

"  You  mean  you  don't  want  her  ?  "  asked  Paul. 

Dawes  stared  up  at  the  picture  with  a  caustic  ex- 
pression on  his  face. 

"  I  hardly  know,"  he  said. 

The   smoke   floated   softly   up. 

"  I  believe  she  wants  you,"  said  Paul. 

"  Do  you?  "  replied  the  other,  soft,  satirical,  abstract. 

"  Yes.  She  never  really  hitched  on  to  me  —  you  were 
always  there  in  the  background.  That 's  why  she 
would  n't  get  a  divorce." 

Dawes  continued  to  stare  in  a  satirical  fashion  at  the 
picture  over  the  mantelpiece. 

"  That 's  how  women  are  with  me,"  said  Paul.  "  They 
want  me  like  mad,  but  they  don't  want  to  belong  to  me. 
And  she  belonged  to  you  all  the  time.  I  knew." 

The  triumphant  male  came  up  in  Dawes.  He  showed 
his  teeth  more  distinctly. 

"  Perhaps  I  was  a  fool,"  he  said. 

"  You  were  a  big  fool,"  said  Morel. 

"  But  perhaps  even  then  you  were  a  bigger  fool,"  said 
Dawes. 

There  was  a  touch  of  triumph  and  malice  in  it. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Paul. 

They  were  silent  for  some  time. 

"  At  any  rate,  I  'm  clearing  out  to-morrow,"  said 
Morel : 

"  I  see,"  answered  Dawes. 

Then  they  did  not  talk  any  more.  The  instinct  to 
murder  each  other  had  returned.  They  almost  avoided 
each  other. 

They  shared  the  same  bedroom.  When  they  retired 
Dawes  seemed  abstract,  thinking  of  something.  He  sat 
on  the  side  of  the  bed  in  his  shirt,  looking  at  his 
legs. 

"  Are  n't  you  getting  cold?  "  asked  Morel. 

"  I  was  lookin'  at  these  legs,"  replied  the  other. 

"What's  up  with  'em?  They  look  all  right,"  replied 
Paul,  from  his  bed. 


498  Sons  and  Lovers 

"  They  look  all  right.  But  there 's  some  water  in 
'em  yet." 

"And  what  about  it?" 

"  Come  and  look." 

Paul  reluctantly  got  out  of  bed  and  went  to  look  at 
the  rather  handsome  legs  of  the  other  man  that  were 
covered  with  glistening,  dark  gold  hair. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Dawes,  pointing  to  his  shin.  "  Look 
at  the  water  under  here." 

"Where?"  said  Paul. 

The  man  pressed  in  his  finger-tips.  They  left  little 
dents  that  filled  up  slowly. 

"  It 's  nothing,"  said  Paul. 

"  You  feel,"  said  Dawes. 

Paul  tried  with  his  fingers.     It  made  little  dents. 

"  H'm !  "  he  said. 

"Rotten,  isn't  it?"  said  Dawes. 

"  Why?     It 's  nothing  much." 

"  You  're  not  much  of  a  man  with  water  in  your  legs." 

"  I  can't  see  as  it  makes  any  difference,"  said  Morel. 
"  I  've  got  a  weak  chest." 

He  returned  to  his  own  bed. 

"  I  suppose  the  rest  of  me  's  all  right,"  said  Dawes,  and 
he  put  out  the  light. 

In  the  morning  it  was  raining.  Morel  packed  his  bag. 
The  sea  was  grey  and  shaggy  and  dismal.  He  seemed 
to  be  cutting  himself  off  from  life  more  and  more.  It 
gave  him  a  wicked  pleasure  to  do  it. 

The  two  men  were  at  the  station.  Clara  stepped  out 
of  the  train,  and  came  along  the  platform,  very  erect  and 
coldly  composed.  She  wore  a  long  coat  and  a  tweed  hat. 
Both  men  hated  her  for  her  composure.  Paul  shook 
hands  with  her  at  the  barrier.  Dawes  was  leaning  against 
the  bookstall,  watching.  His  black  overcoat  was  but- 
toned up  to  the  chin  because  of  the  rain.  He  was  pale, 
with  almost  a  touch  of  nobility  in  his  quietness.  He  came 
forward,  limping  slightly. 

"  You  ought  to  look  better  than  this,"  she  said. 


The  Release  499 

"  Oh,  I  'm  all  right  now." 

The  three  stood  at  a  loss.  She  kept  the  two  men  hesi- 
tating near  her. 

"  Shall  we  go  to  the  lodging  straight  off,"  said  Paul, 
"  or  somewhere  else?  " 

"  We  may  as  well  go  home,"  said  Dawes. 

Paul  walked  on  the  outside  of  the  pavement,  then 
Dawes,  then  Clara.  They  made  polite  conversation.  The 
sitting-room  faced  the  sea,  whose  tide,  grey  and  shaggy, 
hissed  not  far  off. 

Morel  swung  up  the  big  arm-chair. 

"  Sit  down,  Jack,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  want  that  chair,"  said  Dawes. 

"  Sit  down !  "  Morel  repeated. 

Clara  took  off  her  things  and  laid  them  on  the  couch. 
She  had  a  slight  air  of  resentment.  Lifting  her  hair  with 
her  fingers,  she  sat  down,  rather  aloof  and  composed. 
Paul  ran  downstairs  to  speak  to  the  landlady. 

"  I  should  think  you  're  cold,"  said  Dawes  to  his  wife. 
"  Come  nearer  to  the  fire." 

"  Thank  you,  I  'm  quite  warm,"  she  answered. 

She  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  rain  and  at  the 
sea. 

"  When  are  you  going  back?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,  the  rooms  are  taken  until  to-morrow,  so  he 
wants  me  to  stop.  He  's  going  back  to-night." 

"And  then  you're  thinking  of  going  to  Sheffield?" 

"Yes."  . 

"  Are  you  fit  to  start  work?  " 

"  I  'm  going  to  start." 

"  You  've  really  got  a  place  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  begin  on  Monday." 

"  You  don't  look  fit." 

"Why  don't  I?" 

She  looked  again  out  of  the  window  instead  of 
answering. 

"  And  have  you  got  lodgings  in  Sheffield?  " 

"  Yes." 


500  Sons  and  Lovers 

Again  she  looked  away  out  of  the  window.  The  panes 
were  blurred  with  streaming  rain. 

"  And  can  you  manage  all  right  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  s'd  think  so.     I  s'll  have  to !  " 

They  were  silent  when  Morel  returned. 

"  I  shall  go  by  the  four-twenty,"  he  said  as  he  entered. 

Nobody   answered. 

"  I  wish  you  'd  take  your  boots  off,"  he  said  to  Clara. 
"  There  's  a  pair  of  slippers  of  mine." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.     "  They  are  n't  wet." 

He  put  the  slippers  near  her  feet.  She  felt  them 
there. 

Morel  sat  down.  Both  the  men  seemed  helpless,  and 
each  of  them  had  a  rather  hunted  look.  But  Dawes  now 
carried  himself  quietly,  seemed  to  yield  himself,  while 
Paul  seemed  to  screw  himself  up.  Clara  thought  she  had 
never  seen  him  look  so  small  and  mean.  He  was  as  if 
trying  to  get  himself  into  the  smallest  possible  compass. 
And  as  he  went  about  arranging,  and  as  he  sat  talking, 
there  seemed  something  false  about  him  and  out  of  tune. 
Watching  him  unknown,  she  said  to  herself  there  was  no 
stability  about  him.  He  was  fine  in  his  way,  passionate, 
and  able  to  give  her  drinks  of  pure  life  when  he  was  in 
one  mood.  And  now  he  looked  paltry  and  insignificant. 
There  was  nothing  stable  about  him.  Her  husband  had 
more  manly  dignity.  At  any  rate  he  did  not  waft  about 
with  any  wind.  There  was  something  evanescent  about 
Morel,  she  thought,  something  shifting  and  false.  He 
would  never  make  sure  ground  for  any  woman  to  stand 
on.  She  despised  him  rather  for  his  shrinking  together, 
getting  smaller.  Her  husband  at  least  was  manly,  and 
when  he  was  beaten  gave  in.  But  this  other  would  never 
own  to  being  beaten.  He  would  shift  round  and  round, 
prowl,  get  smaller.  She  despised  him.  And  yet  she 
watched  him  rather  than  Dawes,  and  it  seemed  as  if  their 
three  fates  lay  in  his  hands.  She  hated  him  for  it. 

She  seemed  to  understand  better  now  about  men,  and 
what  they  could  or  would  do.  She  was  less  afraid  of 


The  Release  501 

them,  more  sure  of  herself.  That  they  were  not  the 
small  egoists  she  had  imagined  them  made  her  more  com- 
fortable. She  had  learned  a  good  deal  —  almost  as  much 
as  she  wanted  to  learn.  Her  cup  had  been  full.  It  was 
still  as  full  as  she  could  carry.  On  the  whole,  she  would 
not  be  sorry  when  he  was  gone. 

They  had  dinner,  and  sat  eating  nuts  and  drinking  by 
the  fire.  Not  a  serious  word  had  been  spoken.  Yet  Clara 
realized  that  Morel  was  withdrawing  from  the  circle, 
leaving  her  the  option  to  stay  with  her  husband.  It 
angered  her.  He  was  a  mean  fellow,  after  all,  to  take 
what  he  wanted  and  then  give  her  back.  She  did  not 
remember  that  she  herself  had  had  what  she  wanted,  and 
really,  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  wished  to  be  given 
back. 

Paul  felt  crumpled  up  and  lonely.  His  mother  had 
really  supported  his  life.  He  had  loved  her;  they  two 
had,  in  fact,  faced  the  world  together.  Now  she  was 
gone,  and  for  ever  behind  him  was  the  gap  in  life,  the 
tear  in  the  veil,  through  which  his  life  seemed  to  drift 
slowly,  as  if  he  were  drawn  towards  death.  He  wanted 
someone  of  their  own  free  initiative  to  help  him.  The 
lesser  things  he  began  to  let  go  from  him,  for  fear  of  this 
big  thing,  the  lapse  towards  death,  following  in  the  wake 
of  his  beloved.  Clara  could  not  stand  for  him  to  hold 
on  to.  She  wanted  him,  but  not  to  understand  him.  He 
felt  she  wanted  the  man  on  top,  not  the  real  him  that 
was  in  trouble.  That  would  be  too  much  trouble  to  her; 
he  dared  not  give  it  her.  She  could  not  cope  with  him. 
It  made  him  ashamed.  So,  secretly  ashamed  because  he 
was  in  such  a  mess,  because  his  own  hold  on  life  was  so 
unsure,  because  nobody  held  him,  feeling  unsubstantial, 
shadowy,  as  if  he  did  not  count  for  much  in  this  concrete 
world,  he  drew  himself  together  smaller  and  smaller.  He 
did  not  want  to  die;  he  would  not  give  in.  But  he  was 
not  afraid  of  death.  If  nobody  would  help,  he  would  go 
on  alone. 

Dawes  had  been  driven  to  the  extremity  of  life,  until 


502  Sons  and  Lovers 

he  was  afraid.  He  could  go  to  the  brink  of  death,  he 
could  lie  on  the  edge  and  look  in.  Then  cowed,  afraid, 
he  had  to  crawl  back,  and  like  a  beggar  take  what  offered. 
There  was  a  certain  nobility  in  it.  As  Clara  saw,  he 
owned  himself  beaten,  and  he  wanted  to  be  taken  back 
whether  or  not.  That  she  could  do  for  him. 

It  was  three  o'clock. 

"  I  am  going  by  the  four-twenty,"  said  Paul  again  to 
Clara.  "  Are  you  coming  then  or  later  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said. 

"  I  'm  meeting  my  father  in  Nottingham  at  seven- 
fifteen,"  he  said. 

"  Then,"  she  answered,  "  I  '11  come  later." 

Dawes  jerked  suddenly,  as  if  he  had  been  held  on  a 
strain.  He  looked  out  over  the  sea,  but  he  saw  nothing. 

"  There  are  one  or  two  books  in  the  corner,"  said 
Morel.  "  I  've  done  with  'em.7' 

At  about  four  o'clock  he  went. 

"  I  shall  see  you  both  later,"  he  said,  as  he  shook 
hands. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Dawes.  "  An'  perhaps  —  one 
day  —  I  s'll  be  able  to  pay  you  back  the  money  as  —  " 

"  I  shall  come  for  it,  you  '11  see,"  laughed  Paul.  "  I  s'll 
be  on  the  rocks  before  I  'm  very  much  older." 

"  Ay  —  well  —  "  said  Dawes. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  to  Clara. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said,  giving  him  her  hand.  Then  she 
glanced  at  him  for  the  last  time,  dumb  and  humble. 

He  was  gone.    Dawes  and  his  wife  sat  down  again. 

"  It 's  a  nasty  day  for  travelling,"  said  the  man. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

They  talked  in  a  desultory  fashion  until  it  grew  dark. 
The  landlady  brought  in  the  tea.  Dawes  drew  up  his 
chair  to  the  table  without  being  invited,  like  a  husband. 
Then  he  sat  humbly  waiting  for  his  cup.  She  served  him 
as  she  would,  like  a  wife,  not  consulting  his  wish. 

After  tea,  as  it  drew  near  to  six  o'clock,  he  went  to 
the  window.  All  was  dark  outside.  The  sea  was  roaring. 


The  Release  503 

"  It 's  raining  yet,"  he  said. 

"  Is  it?  "  she  answered. 

"  You  won't  go  to-night,  shall  you  ?  "  he  said,  hesi- 
tating. 

She  did  not  answer.     He  waited. 

"  I  should  n't  go  in  this  rain,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  stay?  "  she  asked. 

His  hand  as  he  held  the  dark  curtain  trembled. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

He  remained  with  his  back  to  her.  She  rose  and  went 
slowly  to  him.  He  let  go  the  curtain,  turned,  hesitating, 
towards  her.  She  stood  with  her  hands  behind  her  back, 
looking  up  at  him  in  a  heavy,  inscrutable  fashion. 

"  Do  you  want  me,  Baxter?  "  she  asked. 

His  voice  was  hoarse  as  he  answered: 

"  Do  you  want  to  come  back  to  me  ?  " 

She  made  a  moaning  noise,  lifted  her  arms,  and  put 
them  round  his  neck,  drawing  him  to  her.  He  hid  his 
face  on  her  shoulder,  holding  her  clasped. 

"  Take  me  back !  "  she  whispered,  ecstatic.  "  Take  me 
back,  take  me  back !  "  And  she  put  her  fingers  through 
his  fine,  thin  dark  hair,  as  if  she  were  only  semi-conscious. 
He  tightened  his  grasp  on  her. 

"  Do  you  want  me  again?  "  he  murmured,  broken. 


CHAPTER    XV 

DERELICT 

CLARA  went  with  her  husband  to  Sheffield,  and  Paul 
scarcely  saw  her  again.  Walter  Morel  seemed  to 
have  let  all  the  trouble  go  over  him,  and  there  he  was, 
crawling  about  on  the  mud  of  it,  just  the  same.  There 
was  scarcely  any  bond  between  father  and  son,  save  that 
each  felt  he  must  not  let  the  other  go  in  any  actual 
want.  As  there  was  no  one  to  keep  on  the  home,  and 
as  they  could  neither  of  them  bear  the  emptiness  of  the 
house,  Paul  took  lodgings  in  Nottingham,  and  Morel 
went  to  live  with  a  friendly  family  in  Bestwood. 

Everything  seemed  to  have  gone  smash  for  the  young 
man.  He  could  not  paint.  The  picture  he  finished  on 
the  day  of  his  mother's  death  —  one  that  satisfied  him 
—  was  the  last  thing  he  did.  At  work  there  was  no  Clara. 
When  he  came  home  he  could  not  take  up  his  brushes 
again.  There  was  nothing  left. 

So  he  was  always  in  the  town  at  one  place  or  another, 
drinking,  knocking  about  with  the  men  he  knew.  It  really 
wearied  him.  He  talked  to  barmaids,  to  almost  any 
woman,  but  there  was  that  dark,  strained  look  in  his 
eyes,  as  if  he  were  hunting  something. 

Everything  seemed  so  different,  so  unreal.  There 
seemed  no  reason  why  people  should  go  along  the  street, 
and  houses  pile  up  in  the  daylight.  There  seemed  no 
reason  why  these  things  should  occupy  the  space,  instead 
of  leaving  it  empty.  His  friends  talked  to  him :  he  heard 
the  sounds,  and  he  answered.  But  why  there  should  be 
the  noise  of  speech  he  could  not  understand. 

He  was  most  himself  when  he  was  alone,  or  working 
hard  and  mechanically  at  the  factory.  In  the  latter  case 


Derelict  505 

there  was  pure  forgetfulness,  when  he  lapsed  from  con- 
sciousness. But  it  had  to  come  to  an  end.  It  hurt  him 
so,  that  things  had  lost  their  reality.  The  first  snowdrops 
came.  He  saw  the  tiny  drop-pearls  among  the  grey. 
They  would  have  given  him  the  liveliest  emotion  at  one 
time.  Now  they  were  there,  but  they  did  not  seem  to 
mean  anything.  In  a  few  moments  they  would  cease  to 
occupy  that  place,  and  just  the  space  would  be,  where 
they  had  been.  Tall,  brilliant  tram-cars  ran  along  the 
street  at  night.  It  seemed  almost  a  wonder  they  should 
trouble  to  rustle  backwards  and  forwards.  "  Why 
trouble  to  go  tilting  down  to  Trent  Bridges?"  he  asked 
of  the  big  trams.  It  seemed  they  just  as  well  might  not 
be  as  be. 

The  realest  thing  was  the  thick  darkness  at  night. 
That  seemed  to  him  whole  and  comprehensible  and  rest- 
ful. He  could  leave  himself  to  it.  Suddenly  a  piece  of 
paper  started  near  his  feet  and  blew  along  down  the 
pavement.  He  stood  still,  rigid,  with  clenched  fists,  a 
flame  of  agony  going  over  him.  And  he  saw  again  the 
sick-room,  his  mother,  her  eyes.  Unconsciously  he  had 
been  with  her,  in  her  company.  The  swift  hop  of  the 
paper  reminded  him  she  was  gone.  But  he  had  been 
with  her.  He  wanted  everything  to  stand  still,  so  that 
he  could  be  with  her  again. 

The  days  passed,  the  weeks.  But  everything  seemed  to 
have  fused,  gone  into  a  conglomerated  mass.  He  could 
not  tell  one  day  from  another,  one  week  from  another, 
hardly  one  place  from  another.  Nothing  was  distinct  or 
distinguishable.  Often  he  lost  himself  for  an  hour  at 
a  time,  could  not  remember  what  he  had  done. 

One  evening  he  came  home  late  to  his  lodging.  The 
fire  was  burning  low;  everybody  was  in  bed.  He  threw 
on  some  more  coal,  glanced  at  the  table,  and  decided  he 
wanted  no  supper.  Then  he  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair. 
It  was  perfectly  still.  He  did  not  know  anything,  yet 
he  saw  the  dim  smoke  wavering  up  the  chimney.  Pres- 
ently two  mice  came  out,  cautiously,  nibbling  the  fallen 


506  Sons  and  Lovers 

crumbs.  He  watched  them  as  it  were  from  a  long  way 
off.  The  church  clock  struck  two.  Far  away  he  could 
hear  the  sharp  clinking  of  the  trucks  on  the  railway. 
No,  it  was  not  they  that  were  far  away.  They  were  there 
in  their  places.  But  where  was  he  himself? 

The  time  passed.  The  two  mice,  careering  wildly, 
scampered  cheekily  over  his  slippers.  He  had  not  moved 
a  muscle.  He  did  not  want  to  move.  He  was  not  think- 
ing of  anything.  It  was  easier  so.  There  was  no  wrench 
of  knowing  anything.  Then  from  time  to  time,  some 
other  consciousness,  working  mechanically,  flashed  into 
sharp  phrases. 

"  What  am  I  doing?  " 

And  out  of  the  semi-intoxicated  trance  came  the 
answer : 

"  Destroying  myself." 

Then  a  dull,  live  feeling,  gone  in  an  instant,  told  him 
that  it  was  wrong.  After  a  while,  suddenly  came  the 
question : 

"  Why  wrong?  " 

Again  there  was  no  answer,  but  a  stroke  of  hot  stub- 
bornness inside  his  chest  resisted  his  own  annihilation. 

There  was  a  sound  of  a  heavy  cart  clanking  down  the 
road.  Suddenly  the  electric  light  went  out;  there  was  a 
bruising  thud  in  the  penny-in-the-slot  meter.  He  did  not 
stir,  but  sat  gazing  in  front  of  him.  Only  the  mice  had 
scuttled,  and  the  fire  glowed  red  in  the  dark  room. 

Then,  quite  mechanically  and  more  distinctly,  the  con- 
versation began  again  inside  him. 

"  She  's  dead.     What  was  it  all  for  —  her  struggle?  " 

That  was  his  despair  wanting  to  go  after  her. 

"  You  're  alive." 

"  She  's  not." 

"  She  is  —  in  you." 

Suddenly  he  felt  tired  with  the  burden  of  it. 

"  You  've  got  to  keep  alive  for  her  sake,"  said  his 
will  in  him. 

Something  felt  sulky,  as  if  it  would  not  rouse. 


Derelict  507 

"  You  Ve  got  to  carry  forward  her  living,  and  what 
she  had  done,  go  on  with  it." 

But  he  did  not  want  to.     He  wanted  to  give  up. 

"  But  you  can  go  on  with  your  painting,"  said  the 
will  in  him.  "  Or  else  you  can  beget  children.  They 
both  carry  on  her  effort." 

"  Painting  is  not  living/' 

"  Then  live." 

"  Marry  whom?  "  came  the  sulky  question. 

"  As  best  you  can." 

"Miriam?" 

But  he  did  not  trust  that. 

He  rose  suddenly,  went  straight  to  bed.  When  he 
got  inside  his  bedroom  and  closed  the  door,  he  stood 
with  clenched  fists. 

"  Mater,  my  dear  —  "  he  began,  with  the  whole  force 
of  his  soul.  Then  he  stopped.  He  would  not  say  it. 
He  would  not  admit  that  he  wanted  to  die,  to  have  done. 
He  would  not  own  that  life  had  beaten  him,  or  that 
death  had  beaten  him. 

Going  straight  to  bed,  he  slept  at  once,  abandoning 
himself  to  the  sleep. 

So  the  weeks  went  on.  Always  alone,  his  soul  oscillated, 
first  on  the  side  of  death,  then  on  the  side  of  life,  dog- 
gedly. The  real  agony  was  that  he  had  nowhere  to  go, 
nothing  to  do,  nothing  to  say,  and  was  nothing  himself. 
Sometimes  he  ran  down  the  streets  as  if  he  were  mad: 
sometimes  he  was  mad ;  things  were  n't  there,  things  were 
there.  It  made  him  pant.  Sometimes  he  stood  before 
the  bar  of  the  public-house  where  he  had  called  for  a 
drink.  Everything  suddenly  stood  back  away  from  him. 
He  saw  the  face  of  the  barmaid,  the  gabbling  drinkers, 
his  own  glass  on  the  slopped,  mahogany  board,  in  the 
distance.  There  was  something  between  him  and  them. 
He  could  not  get  into  touch.  He  did  not  want  them; 
he  did  not  want  his  drink.  Turning  abruptly,  he  went 
out.  On  the  threshold  he  stood  and  looked  at  the  lighted 
street.  But  he  was  not  of  it  or  in  it.  Something  sepa- 


508  Sons  and  Lovers 

rated  him.  Everything  went  on  there  below  those  lamps, 
shut  away  from  him.  He  could  not  get  at  them.  He 
felt  he  could  n't  touch  the  lamp-posts,  not  if  he  reached. 
Where  could  he  go?  There  was  nowhere  to  go,  neither 
back  into  the  inn,  nor  forward  anywhere.  He  felt  stifled. 
There  was  nowhere  for  him.  The  stress  grew  inside  him; 
he  felt  he  should  smash. 

"  I  must  n't,"  he  said ;  and,  turning  blindly,  he  went 
in  and  drank.  Sometimes  the  drink  did  him  good ;  some- 
times it  made  him  worse.  He  ran  down  the  road.  For 
ever  restless,  he  went  here,  there,  everywhere.  He  deter- 
mined to  work.  But  when  he  had  made  six  strokes,  he 
loathed  the  pencil  violently,  got  up,  and  went  away, 
hurried  off  to  a  club  where  he  could  play  cards  or  bil- 
liards, to  a  place  where  he  could  flirt  with  a  barmaid 
who  was  no  more  to  him  than  the  brass  pump-handle  she 
drew. 

He  was  very  thin  and  lantern-jawed.  He  dared  not 
meet  his  own  eyes  in  the  mirror;  he  never  looked  at 
himself.  He  wanted  to  get  away  from  himself,  but  there 
was  nothing  to  get  hold  of.  In  despair  he  thought  of 
Miriam.  Perhaps  —  perhaps  — ? 

Then,  happening  to  go  into  the  Unitarian  Church  one 
Sunday  evening,  when  they  stood  up  to  sing  the  second 
hymn  he  saw  her  before  him.  The  light  glistened  on  her 
lower  lip  as  she  sang.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  got  some- 
thing, at  any  rate:  some  hope  in  heaven,  if  not  in  earth. 
Her  comfort  and  her  life  seemed  in  the  after-world.  A 
warm,  strong  feeling  for  her  came  up.  She  seemed  to 
yearn,  as  she  sang,  for  the  mystery  and  comfort.  He 
put  his  hope  in  her.  He  longed  for  the  sermon  to  be 
over,  to  speak  to  her. 

The  throng  carried  her  out  just  before  him.  He  could 
nearly  touch  her.  She  did  not  know  he  was  there.  He 
saw  the  brown,  humble  nape  of  her  neck  under  its  black 
curls.  He  would  leave  himself  to  her.  She  was  better 
and  bigger  than  he.  He  would  depend  on  her. 

She  went  wandering,   in  her  blind  way,  through  the 


Derelict  509 

little  throngs  of  people  outside  the  church.  She  always 
looked  so  lost  and  out  of  place  among  people.  He  went 
forward  and  put  his  hand  on  her  arm.  She  started 
violently.  Her  great  brown  eyes  dilated  in  fear,  then 
went  questioning  at  the  sight  of  him.  He  shrank  slightly 
from  her. 

"I  didn't  know  —  "  she  faltered. 

"  Nor  I,"  he  said. 

He  looked  away.  His  sudden,  flaring  hope  sank 
again. 

"  What  are  you  doing  in  town  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  'm  staying  at  Cousin  Anne's." 

"Ha!     For  long?" 

"  No ;    only  till  to-morrow." 

"  Must  you  go  straight  home  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  then  hid  her  face  under  her  hat- 
brim. 

"  No,"  she  said  —  "  no ;    it 's  not  necessary." 

He  turned  away,  and  she  went  with  him.  They 
threaded  through  the  throng  of  church-people.  The 
organ  was  still  sounding  in  St.  Mary's.  Dark  figures 
came  through  the  lighted  doors ;  people  were  coming 
down  the  steps.  The  large  coloured  windows  glowed 
up  in  the  night.  The  church  was  like  a  great  lantern 
suspended.  They  went  down  Hollow  Stone,  and  he  took 
the  car  for  the  Bridges. 

"  You  will  just  have  supper  with  me,"  he  said;  "  then 
I  '11  bring  you  back." 

"  Very  well,"  she  replied,  low  and  husky. 

They  scarcely  spoke  while  they  were  on  the  car.  The 
Trent  ran  dark  and  full  under  the  bridge.  Away  towards 
Colwich  all  was  black  night.  He  lived  down  Holme  Road, 
on  the  naked  edge  of  the  town,  facing  across  the  river 
meadows  towards  Sneinton  Hermitage  and  the  steep  scarp 
of  Colwick  Wood.  The  floods  were  out.  The  silent  water 
and  the  darkness  spread  away  on  their  left.  Almost 
afraid,  they  hurried  along  by  the  houses. 

Supper   was    laid.      He   swung    the    curtain    over    the 


510  Sons  and  Lovers 

window.  There  was  a  bowl  of  freesias  and  scarlet  anem- 
ones on  the  table.  She  bent  to  them.  Still  touching 
them  with  her  finger-tips,  she  looked  up  at  him, 
saying : 

"  Are  n't  they  beautiful?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  What  will  you  drink  —  coffee?  " 

"  I  should  like  it,"  she  said. 

"  Then  excuse  me  a  moment." 

He  went  out  to  the  kitchen. 

Miriam  took  off  her  things  and  looked  round.  It  was 
a  bare,  severe  room.  Her  photo,  Clara's,  Annie's,  were 
on  the  wall.  She  looked  on  the  drawing-board  to  see 
what  he  was  doing.  There  were  only  a  few  meaningless 
lines.  She  looked  to  see  what  books  he  was  reading. 
Evidently  just  an  ordinary  novel.  The  letters  in  the 
rack  she  saw  were  from  Annie,  Arthur,  and  from  some 
man  or  other  she  did  not  know.  Everything  he  had 
touched,  everything  that  was  in  the  least  personal  to  him, 
she  examined  with  lingering  absorption.  He  had  been 
gone  from  her  so  long,  she  wanted  to  re-discover  him,  his 
position,  what  he  was  now.  But  there  was  not  much  in 
the  room  to  help  her.  It  only  made  her  feel  rather  sad, 
it  was  so  hard  and  comfortless. 

She  was  curiously  examining  a  sketch-book  when  he 
returned  with  the  coffee. 

"  There  's  nothing  new  in  it,"  he  said,  "  and  nothing 
very  interesting." 

He  put  down  the  tray,  and  went  to  look  over  her 
shoulder.  She  turned  the  pages  slowly,  intent  on  examin- 
ing everything. 

"  H'm !  "  he  said,  as  she  paused  at  a  sketch.  "  I  'd 
forgotten  that.  It 's  not  bad,  is  it?  " 

"  No,"  she  said.     "  I  don't  quite  understand  it." 

He  took  the  book  from  her  and  went  through  it. 
Again  he  made  a  curious  sound  of  surprise  and  pleasure. 

"  There  's  some  not  bad  stuff  in  there,"  he  said. 

"  Not  at  all  bad,"  she  answered  gravely. 

He   felt  again  her  interest  in  his  work.     Or  was   it 


Derelict  511 

for  himself?  Why  was  she  always  most  interested  in 
him  as  he  appeared  in  his  work? 

They  sat  down  to  supper. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  did  n't  I  hear  something 
about  your  earning  your  own  living?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  bowing  her  dark  head  over  her  cup. 

"And  what  of  it?" 

"  I  'm  merely  going  to  the  farming  college  at  B rough- 
ton  for  three  months,  and  I  shall  probably  be  kept  on  as 
a  teacher  there." 

"  I  say  —  that  sounds  all  right  for  you !  You  always 
wanted  to  be  independent." 

"  Yes." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"  I  only  knew  last  week." 

"  But  I  heard  a  month  ago,"  he  said. 

"  Yes ;   but  nothing  was  settled  then." 

"  I  should  have  thought,"  he  said,  "  you  'd  have  told 
me  you  were  trying." 

She  ate  her  food  in  the  deliberate,  constrained  way, 
almost  as  if  she  recoiled  a  little  from  doing  anything  so 
publicly,'  that  he  knew  so  well. 

"  I  suppose  you  're  glad,"  he  said. 

"  Very  glad." 

"  Yes  —  it  will  be  something." 

He  was   rather  disappointed. 

"  I  think  it  will  be  a  great  deal,"  she  said,  almost 
haughtily,  resentfully. 

He  laughed  shortly. 

"  Why  do  you  think  it  won't?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  it  won't  be  a  great  deal.  Only 
you  '11  find  earning  your  own  living  is  n't  everything." 

"  No,"  she  said,  swallowing  with  difficulty ;  "  I  don't 
suppose  it  is." 

"  I  suppose  work  can  be  nearly  everything  to  a  man," 
he  said,  "  though  it  is  n't  to  me.  But  a  woman  only 
works  with  a  part  of  herself.  The  real  and  vital  part  is 
covered  up." 


Sons  and  Lovers 

"  But  a  man  can  give  all  himself  to  a  .work  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  practically." 

"  And  a  woman  only  the  unimportant  part  of  herself?  " 

"That's   it." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  her  eyes  dilated  with  anger. 

"  Then,"  she  said,  "  if  it 's  true,  it 's  a  great  shame." 

"  It  is.     But  I  don't  know  everything,"  he  answered. 

After  supper  they  drew  up  to  the  fire.  He  swung  her 
a  chair  facing  him,  and  they  sat  down.  She  was  wearing 
a  dress  of  dark  claret  colour,  that  suited  her  dark  com- 
plexion and  her  large  features.  Still,  the  curls  were  fine 
and  free,  but  her  face  was  much  older,  the  brown  throat 
much  thinner.  She  seemed  old  to  him,  older  than  Clara. 
Her  bloom  of  youth  had  quickly  gone.  A  sort  of  stiff- 
ness, almost  of  woodenness,  had  come  upon  her.  She 
meditated  a  little  while,  then  looked  at  him. 

"  And  how  are  things  with  you?  "  she  asked. 

"  About  all  right,"  he  answered. 

She  looked  at  him,  waiting. 

"  Nay,"  she  said,  very  low. 

Her  brown,  nervous  hands  were  clasped  over  her  knee. 
They  had  still  the  lack  of  confidence  or  repose,  the  almost 
hysterical  look.  He  winced  as  he  saw  them.  Then  he 
laughed  mirthlessly.  She  put  her  fingers  between  her 
lips.  His  slim,  black,  tortured  body  lay  quite  still  in  the 
chair.  She  suddenly  took  her  finger  from  her  mouth  and 
looked  at  him. 

"  And  have  you  broken  off  with  Clara?  " 

"  Yes." 

His  body  lay  like  an  abandoned  thing,  strewn  in  the  chair. 

"  You  know,"  she  said,  "  I  think  we  ought  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

He  opened  his  eyes  for  the  first  time  since  many  months, 
and  attended  to  her  with  respect. 

"Why?"  he  said. 

"  See,"  she  said,  "  how  you  waste  yourself !  You 
might  be  ill,  you  might  die,  and  I  never  know  —  be  no 
more  then  than  if  I  had  never  known  you." 


Derelict  513 

"  And  if  we  married?  "  he  asked. 

"  At  any  rate,  I  could  prevent  you  wasting  yourself 
and  being  a  prey  to  other  women  —  like  —  like  Clara." 

"  A  prey?  "  he  repeated,  smiling. 

She  bowed  her  head  in  silence.  He  lay  feeling  his 
despair  come  up  again. 

"  I  'm  not  sure,"  he  said  slowly,  "  that  marriage  would 
be  much  good." 

"  I  only  think  of  you,"  she  replied. 

"  I  know  you  do.  But  —  you  love  me  so  much,  you 
want  to  put  me  in  your  pocket.  And  I  should  die  there 
smothered." 

She  bent  her  head,  put  her  finger  between  her  lips, 
while  the  bitterness  surged  up  in  her  heart. 

"  And  what  will  you  do  otherwise  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  —  go  on,  I  suppose.  Perhaps  I  shall 
soon  go  abroad." 

The  despairing  doggedness  in  his  tone  made  her  go 
on  her  knees  on  the  rug  before  the  fire,  very  near  to 
him.  There  she  crouched  as  if  she  were  crushed  by  some- 
thing, and  could  not  raise  her  head.  His  hands  lay  quite 
inert  on  the  arms  of  his  chair.  She  was  aware  of  them. 
She  felt  that  now  he  lay  at  her  mercy.  If  she  could 
rise,  take  him,  put  her  arms  round  him,  and  say,  "  You 
are  mine,"  then  he  would  leave  himself  to  her.  But  dare 
she?  She  could  easily  sacrifice  herself.  But  dare  she 
assert  herself?  She  was  aware  of  his  dark-clothed, 
slender  body,  that  seemed  one  stroke  of  life,  sprawled  in 
the  chair  close  to  her.  But  no;  she  dared  not  put  her 
arms  round  it,  take  it  up,  and  say,  "  It  is  mine,  this 
body.  Leave  it  to  me."  And  she  wanted  to.  It  called 
to  all  her  woman's  instinct.  But  she  crouched,  and  dared 
not.  She  was  afraid  he  would  not  let  her.  She  was 
afraid  it  was  too  much.  It  lay  there,  his  body,  aban- 
doned. She  knew  she  ought  to  take  it  up  and  claim  it, 
and  claim  every  right  to  it.  But  —  could  she  do  it  ? 
Her  impotence  before  him,  before  the  strong  demand  of 
some  unknown  thing  in  him,  was  her  extremity.  Her 


514  Sons  and  Lovers 

hands  fluttered;  she  half  lifted  her  head.  Her  eyes, 
shuddering,  appealing,  gone  almost  distracted,  pleaded  to 
him  suddenly.  His  heart  caught  with  pity.  He  took 
her  hands,  drew  her  to  him,  and  comforted  her. 

"  Will  you  have  me,  to  marry  me  ?  "  he  said  very 
low. 

Oh,  why  did  not  he  take  her?  Her  very  soul  belonged 
to  him.  Why  would  he  not  take  what  was  his?  She  had 
borne  so  long  the  cruelty  of  belonging  to  him  and  not 
being  claimed  by  him.  Now  he  was  straining  her  again. 
It  was  too  much  for  her.  She  drew  back  her  head,  held 
his  face  between  her  hands,  and  looked  him  in  the  eyes. 
No,  he  was  hard.  He  wanted  something  else.  She  pleaded 
to  him  with  all  her  love  not  to  make  it  her  choice.  She 
could  not  cope  with  it,  with  him,  she  knew  not  with  what. 
But  it  strained  her  till  she  felt  she  would  break. 

"  Do  you  want  it?  "  she  asked,  very  gravely. 

"  Not  much,"  he  replied,  with  pain. 

She  turned  her  face  aside;  then,  raising  herself  with 
dignity,  she  took  his  head  to  her  bosom,  and  rocked  him 
softly.  She  was  not  to  have  him,  then!  So  she  could 
comfort  him.  She  put  her  fingers  through  his  hair.  For 
her,  the  anguished  sweetness  of  self-sacrifice.  For  him, 
the  hate  and  misery  of  another  failure.  He  could  not 
bear  it  —  that  breast  which  was  warm  and  which  cradled 
him  without  taking  the  burden  of  him.  So  much  he 
wanted  to  rest  on  her  that  the  feint  of  rest  only  tortured 
him.  He  drew  away. 

"  And  without  marriage  we  can  do  nothing?  "  he  asked. 

His  mouth  was  lifted  from  his  teeth  with  pain.  She 
put  her  little  finger  between  her  lips. 

"  No,"  she  said,  low  and  like  the  toll  of  a  bell.  "  No, 
I  think  not." 

It  was  the  end  then  between  them.  She  could  not  take 
him  and  relieve  him  of  the  responsibility  of  himself.  She 
could  only  sacrifice  herself  to  him  —  sacrifice  herself  every 
day,  gladly.  And  that  he  did  not  want.  He  wanted  her 
to  hold  him  and  say,  with  joy  and  authority:  "  Stop  all 


Derelict  515 

this  restlessness  and  beating  against  death.  You  are  mine 
for  a  mate."  She  had  not  the  strength.  Or  was  it  a  mate 
she  wanted?  or  did  she  want  a  Christ  in  him? 

He  felt,  in  leaving  her,  he  was  defrauding  her  of  life. 
But  he  knew  that,  in  staying,  stifling  the  inner,  desperate 
man,  he  was  denying  his  own  life.  And  he  did  not  hope 
to  give  life  to  her  by  denying  his  own. 

She  sat  very  quiet.  He  lit  a  cigarette.  The  smoke 
went  up  from  it,  wavering.  He  was  thinking  of  his  mother, 
and  had  forgotten  Miriam.  She  suddenly  looked  at  him. 
Her  bitterness  came  surging  up.  Her  sacrifice,  then,  was 
useless.  He  lay  there  aloof,  careless  about  her.  Suddenly 
she  saw  again  his  lack  of  religion,  his  restless  instability. 
He  would  destroy  himself  like  a  perverse  child.  Well, 
then,  he  would ! 

"  I  think  I  must  go,"  she  said  softly. 

By  her  tone  he  knew  she  was  despising  him.  He  rose 
quietly. 

"  I  '11  come  along  with  you,"  he  answered. 

She  stood  before  the  mirror  pinning  on  her  hat.  How 
bitter,  how  unutterably  bitter,  it  made  her  that  he  re- 
jected her  sacrifice!  Life  ahead  looked  dead,  as  if  the 
glow  were  gone  out.  She  bowed  her  face  over  the  flowers 
—  the  freesias  so  sweet  and  spring-like,  the  scarlet  anem- 
ones, flaunting  over  the  table.  It  was  like  him  to  have 
those  flowers. 

He  moved  about  the  room  with  a  certain  sureness  of 
touch,  swift  and  relentless  and  quiet.  She  knew  she  could 
not  cope  with  him.  He  would  escape  like  a  weasel  out  of 
her  hands.  Yet  without  him  her  life  would  trail  on  lifeless. 
Brooding,  she  touched  the  flowers. 

"  Have  them !  "  he  said ;  and  he  took  them  out  of  the 
jar,  dripping  as  they  were,  and  went  quickly  into  the 
kitchen.  She  waited  for  him,  took  the  flowers,  and  they 
went  out  together,  he  talking,  she  feeling  dead. 

She  was  going  from  him  now.  In  her  misery  she  leaned 
against  him  as  they  sat  on  the  car.  He  was  unresponsive. 
Where  would  he  go?  What  would  be  the  end  of  him? 


516  Sons  and  Lovers 

She  could  not  bear  it,  the  vacant  feeling  where  he  should 
be.  He  was  so  foolish,  so  wasteful,  never  at  peace  with 
himself.  And  now  where  would  he  go?  And  what  did  he 
care  that  he  wasted  her?  He  had  no  religion;  it  was  all 
for  the  moment's  attraction  that  he  cared,  nothing  else, 
nothing  deeper.  Well,  she  would  wait  and  see  how  it 
turned  out  with  him.  When  he  had  had  enough  he  would 
give  in  and  come  to  her. 

He  shook  hands  and  left  her  at  the  door  of  her  cousin's 
house.  When  he  turned  away  he  felt  the  last  hold  for  him 
had  gone.  The  town,  as  he  sat  upon  the  car,  stretched 
away  over  the  bay  of  railway,  a  level  fume  of  lights.  Be- 
yond the  town  the  country,  little  smouldering  spots  for 
more  towns  —  the  sea  —  the  night  —  on  and  on !  And  he 
had  no  place  in  it!  Whatever  spot  he  stood  on,  there 
he  stood  alone.  From  his  breast,  from  his  mouth,  sprang 
the  endless  space,  and  it  was  there  behind  him,  every- 
where. The  people  hurrying  along  the  streets  offered  no 
obstruction  to  the  void  in  which  he  found  himself.  They 
were  small  shadows  whose  footsteps  and  voices  could  be 
heard,  but  in  each  of  them  the  same  night,  the  same  silence. 
He  got  off  the  car.  In  the  country  all  was  dead  still. 
Little  stars  shone  high  up;  little  stars  spread  far  away 
in  the  flood-waters,  a  firmament  below.  Everywhere  the 
vastness  and  terror  of  the  immense  night  which  is  roused 
and  stirred  for  a  brief  while  by  the  day,  but  which  re- 
turns, and  will  remain  at  last  eternal,  holding  everything 
in  its  silence  and  its  living  gloom.  There  was  no  Time, 
only  Space.  Who  could  say  his  mother  had  lived  and  did 
not  live?  She  had  been  in  one  place,  and  was  in  another; 
that  was  all.  And  his  soul  could  not  leave  her,  wherever 
she  was.  Now  she  was  gone  abroad  into  the  night,  and  he 
was  with  her  still.  They  were  together.  But  yet  there 
was  his  body,  his  chest,  that  leaned  against  the  stile,  his 
hands  on  the  wooden  bar.  They  seemed  something. 
Where  was  he?  —  one  tiny  upright  speck  of  flesh,  less 
than  an  ear  of  wheat  lost  in  the  field.  He  could  not  bear 
it.  On  every  side  the  immense  dark  silence  seemed  press- 


Derelict  517 

ing  him,  so  tiny  a  spark,  into  extinction,  and  yet,  almost 
nothing,  he  could  not  be  extinct.  Night,  in  which  every- 
thing was  lost,  went  reaching  out,  beyond  stars  and  sun. 
Stars  and  sun,  a  few  bright  grains,  went  spinning  round 
for  terror,  and  holding  each  other  in  embrace,  there  in  a 
darkness  that  outpassed  them  all,  and  left  them  tiny  and 
daunted.  So  much,  and  himself,  infinitesimal,  at  the  core 
a  nothingness,  and  yet  not  nothing. 

"  Mother !  "  he  whimpered  —  "  mother !  " 
She  was  the  only  thing  that  held  him  up,  himself,  amid 
all  this.     And  she  was  gone,  intermingled  herself.     He 
wanted  her  to  touch  him,  have  him  alongside  with  her. 

But  no,  he  would  not  give  in.  Turning  sharply,  he 
walked  towards  the  city's  gold  phosphorescence.  His 
fists  were  shut,  his  mouth  set  fast.  He  would  not  take 
that  direction,  to  the  darkness,  to  follow  her.  He  walked 
towards  the  faintly  humming,  glowing  town,  quickly. 


